Lunar: Crimson Hope
by DezoPenguin
Summary: Three hundred years after the defeat of the Magic Emperor, a mysterious woman's appearance in a lakefront town touches off an epic adventure that may bring hope for Lunar's salvation. CURRENTLY ON HIATUS.
1. The Pursued

The girl's fear was a palpable thing, a deep gray shadow in her mind that drove out any semblance of coherent thought. The urge to escape pounded through her, not even a word but a thunderous instinct screaming in her blood, and so she ran, hurtling down the woodland path as if the hounds of the Pit pursued her. Her breath burned in her throat with every step she took, and tree branches seemed to reach for her, clawing at her face and arms, tearing her clothing. The sun filtering through the trees cast shifting patterns of light all around her; the girl's speed meant that the angles were constantly changing, shadows and glowing rays swirling in a crazy kaleidoscope pattern as she fled. Her heart pounded in her chest, legs and belly aching from the unaccustomed exertion.

_"Elia!"_

The cry from behind her was shrill and high-pitched, as if it had been torn from some monstrous throat. The girl risked a glance over her shoulder to see if her pursuers were crying her name in exultation at catching her or frustration at her escape. It was a mistake; her foot caught on a knobby root protruding from the ground and she fell sprawling right at the point where the path widened into a broad clearing.

Elia cursed as she pushed herself to her feet, trying to ignore the pain throbbing from her shoulder. In the woods she'd at least had the chance to escape; the twists of the path might have given her an opportunity to slip off into the trees once she was out of sight. Her pursuers weren't experienced trackers, so it wouldn't have been too hard to get away once she'd hid. Out in the open, though, there was no way to avoid them.

The two men burst out of the woods only moments after she had. They wore white leather vests and breeches, the vests ornately tooled with gold in abstract patterns. Their bare arms were circled at the wrists by heavy brass cuffs, and they held six-foot staves of clear crystal in their powerful hands. Elia knew their kind; she had encountered men like them before. They were cold and remorseless, fanatical tools that worshipped their master with more intensity than they did any Goddess or God. Mercy was beyond their comprehension.

One of the men raised his staff and leveled it at the girl. She tried to scamper away, but the man spoke a word of command and a surge of power leapt from the tip of the crystal rod. An explosive shock roared through Elia's body, knocking her head over heels, bruising and bloodying her. The staff shattered into a thousand glittering fragments as its force was released. The men had no magic of their own, Elia realized, just a bit of power lent to them by their master. Of course, that was but slight consolation; if the second man's staff didn't kill her, it would certainly leave her too helpless to resist the men and the sturdy cudgels that hung from their belts.

Not that she had much chance as it was. The two men might possess only the blurred thoughts of fanatics, but they were obviously competent in their primary area of skill: brute violence. That was why Elia had chosen to run in the first place.

The man who'd fired the blast unhooked his club and moved in on the prone girl. The second remained back, his staff at the ready if things went wrong. Elia had no weapon, not even a belt knife, but no doubt the man's master had told them all sorts of stories about her to insure they would be cautious. She gritted her teeth, hoping to make at least some of those stories true. Elia dug her fingers into the soft, loamy soil, and when the man came close, she hurled the handful of dirt full into his face. He staggered, clawing at his eyes, and Elia grabbed his legs, pulling him forward onto her. It could have been a foolish thing to do under normal circumstances, but it worked. The second man's reactions were just slow enough that when he unleashed his bolt, it struck his companion full in the back, slamming him down onto the girl.

For a moment Elia was terrified that the man was still conscious, in which case he'd have her at a horrible disadvantage, but his body on hers was all dead weight. Knowing the second man was coming, she struggled to push out from under the unconscious soldier. She got to her feet at last, but her knees wavered as she stood. The bolt she'd absorbed had hurt her more than she'd realized, and having a burly fighter land on her hadn't helped. A glance back showed the second pursuer charging at her, club raised and bloodlust in his eyes.

Elia was out of tricks. She could try to flee, and be caught from behind, or she could stand and face her enemy and so see death as it came. Neither option appealed very much. Elia cast her gaze about desperately, looking for something, anything that might help.

She might have missed the tiny firefly spark of silver flame floating at about waist height if she hadn't been looking, but no one could have missed what it blossomed into. The spark expanded, swelling in an instant to a disk of whirling flames, silver and white and brilliant blues that captured the eye almost hypnotically. No heat came from the fiery disk, which might have helped Elia make up her mind. Choosing the devil she didn't know over the one she did, she dove into the fire.

All at once she was surrounded by a cold, gray emptiness. There was no ground beneath her feet, yet no sense that she was falling. Elia felt like she was floating in a cool, silver sea that bathed her, soothing her aching body, replacing pain with a gentle weariness. Her senses swam, but the girl felt no worry; she was enclosed by an overwhelming feeling of calm and serenity. Slowly, her eyes drifted shut, and Elia allowed her mind to flow away into dreamless slumber.

-X X X-

_Three hundred years ago, the world of Lunar was shaken to its foundations. The hero Ghaleon, once a loyal servant of the Goddess Althena, was consumed with frustration and despair at the course the Goddess sought to chart for Lunar. He found allies for his pain in the outcast Vile Tribe, descendants of those who had been banished by Althena to the wastelands of the Frontier. Claiming the long-forgotten mantle of the Magic Emperor, Ghaleon enslaved the magic of the Four Dragons of Althena to his will and was even able to command the Goddess herself._

_Ghaleon's dreams were broken only by the heroism of the last Dragonmaster, Alex of Burg, and his companions. They destroyed the Magic Emperor and rescued Althena from the darkness he had trapped her within._

_But victory is not without consequences. The Goddess chose to abandon her divinity for life as Luna, mortal wife of Alex, trusting humanity with its own future. While the magic of the Four Dragons was eternal, the physical vessels of that magic were not, and only the new White Dragon, Nall, survived in more than spirit. And while the majority of the Vile Tribe's remnants came to realize their own errors and sought a new life within the light under their leader, Phacia, there were always those who were caught forever by the cycle of hate._

_A vacuum always seeks to be filled, and Lunar would soon find Althena's dream for the future to be tested far sooner than anyone could imagine._

-X X X-

The lakefront town of Kyre was not particularly hag-ridden with criminals. That wasn't abnormal, since the Madoria Plains weren't Lunar's most settled area and organized crime requires civilization to organize _in_. Still, it was a harbor town, and the combination of trade money with the drinking, gambling, and wenching that were the favorite shoreland pastimes of seamen invariably produced a certain rowdy lawlessness. Tabren knew this, having grown up in his aunt's inn, the Laughing Dolphin, since the age of six. That was nine years of seeing sailors, smugglers, cutthroats, and other unsavory types wander in and out of the tavern. He was familiar with most varieties of waterfront scum, and knew better than to fall foul of them. That was why he caught on soon that two men were watching him.

Tabren's Aunt Lil had sent him to Harbor Market to arrange purchases of several supplies from the inn--meat, fish, ale, and the like. He'd first noticed the two men when he was at Hallena the fishmonger's stall, watching him from two stalls down. They followed him to Lorkis the vintner, and from there to Peldon the brewer. The two stood out like a sore thumb, their loose-fitting shirts and woolen hose were ragged, their hair was greasy and unkempt, and their beards were scraggly. Those features weren't all that uncommon in Kyre's lakefront quarter, but the fact that they didn't buy anything, didn't even look over the wares, marked them. Even thieves and pickpockets made a pretense of shopping just to distract their victims from their real activities.

Tabren was a rangy lad and good enough with his hands that he sometimes assisted Lakus, the Dolphin's bouncer, when a brawl broke out that was too big for one man to handle, but he didn't fancy his chances against the two men. Both were big, with the kind of short swords favored by bandits and seamen fastened at their waists. The hard glint in their eyes spoke of a complete lack of sympathy for the pain of others. Tabren couldn't believe they were after his money; the purse Aunt Lil had given him hadn't exactly been overflowing with silver and the men had seen it dwindle as Tabren went from stall to stall. A press gang was more likely, but they usually traveled in larger packs, and invariably carried clubs. The point of a press gang was to kidnap men to fill out a crew, and sticking victims with swords tended to defeat the purpose.

They stopped following him after he left Krennia the butcher. Tabren would have preferred they'd kept on doing it because they'd switched to active pursuit, stalking purposefully through the crowd. He turned and bolted towards the edge of the market, hoping to lose himself in the throng of shoppers and merchants before ducking out of the marketplace. They saw his game, though, and split up, one moving to cut him off from the exit into Sail Street while the other came at him directly.

_Where are all the cityguards when you need them?_ Tabren thought. He turned to his left, hoping to make his pursuers believe that he was trying to double back and get to the west end of the market where most of the exits were. The man following him directly fell for it, moving to cut him off. Instead, Tabren turned and headed right for the southeast corner of the square. There was an alley there that was hard to see unless you were right on top of it, and he hoped that the two men didn't know about it, or had at least forgotten for a while.

Tabren's plan seemed to work. A glance behind him showed his pursuers to be stalking him slowly and cautiously, closing in as if they thought they had him pinned and wanted to make sure he couldn't duck between them. _Exactly what I wanted_. At once Tabren stopped, spun on his heel, and bolted towards the alley mouth at full speed. His move caught the two cutthroats off guard, and they took a few seconds to react and come running after him.

A laugh of triumph died in Tabren's throat, though, as he got about halfway down the alley. Three men stepped into view, blocking the far end. Two were ruffians like the ones he'd been running from, but the one in the middle definitely was not. Tabren didn't stop to study details; he turned to run back towards Harbor Market but found that end of the alley blocked by the two original thugs, both now grinning broadly. He looked from side to side for a way of escape, but there were no doors or windows, just bare brick walls. A skilled climber might have scampered up to a roof, but Tabren had no experience in burglary, which was really the trade that gave a functional education in wall-crawling. _So much for the benefits of a law-abiding life_.

"I'd suggest that you give up," said the man who was obviously the leader of the little band. "All we really want is to talk to you."

"You could have done _that_ without hounding me into a back alley," Tabren noted. He had been trapped, he realized. The two men had let themselves be seen and had carefully herded him into the alley.

"I dislike public conversations," the leader said coolly. "There are all sorts of things I can't do in public that keep a conversation going in the direction I want it to."

He really looked nothing like a waterfront thug, Tabren decided. His blond hair was worn long and pulled back in a queue, his cheeks were clean-shaven, and there was intelligence, even humor in his brown eyes. He wore a green doublet and dull brown hose, with utilitarian low boots. More ominous were the way his doublet bulged slightly to indicate that he was wearing a mail shirt, the heavy broadsword buckled at his waist, and the cruel twist to his lips.

All five men advanced steadily on Tabren, narrowing the amount of space he had to work with.

"It might reassure you to know," the man in green said, "that I'm not really interested in you at all."

"You've got a funny way of showing it," Tabren muttered. His attempt at wit went ignored.

"The fact is, there may be an old friend of mine staying at the inn where you work. I'd go there and see for myself, but my friend and I aren't really on the best of terms these days. Our conversations tend to revolve around hangings, throat-cuttings, and similar topics. So, I thought I'd verify that it really was him and learn what I could about his travel plans and the like before paying a social call."

One of the thugs dropped a heavy hand on Tabren's shoulder, spinning him up against the hard rock wall. The blond man faced the boy, but stood back out of range of a desperate kick. It was the kind of thing someone with a lot of experience questioning hostile captives did.

"Now, my friend is built something like me. He has black hair and blue eyes, and is really too handsome for his own good."

Tabren had hoped it was all a mistake up until that point, but unfortunately there was a guest fitting that description at the Dolphin who'd arrived two days past. The blond man's eyes lit up as he saw the flash of recognition.

"Ah, good, now we're getting somewhere. He's a relatively famous fellow, in fact. Ten years ago he was one of the Lion Knights, but they decided that they could do without his company. Perhaps you've heard of him? Minstrels call him Morhault the Fallen."

"You're not really in a position to criticize anyone else's reputation, Krasek," that same Morhault stated coldly. The hawk-profiled renegade had entered the alley quietly, and unlike the other men he had his sword drawn. It was an unusual weapon, with a long, heavy blade like an ordinary broadsword but a hilt twice as long as normal, more suited to a two-handed blade. The hand-and-a-half sword was paired with an equally unusual shield, a kind of gauntlet for his left forearm whose outer side was thickly built up and had curving projections to protect wrist and elbow. He wore his chainmail shirt openly, not bothering to hide it.

The former knight's eyes swept across the alley, assessing the opposition. "Is this the best you could do? I saw these two sniffing around the inn almost as soon as they showed up. You used to be able to afford decent spies."

The thugs were already drawing their swords. Three rushed at Morhault, while the fourth hung back by Krasek. Morhault crushed his gauntlet into one's face, knocking him over, then cut down a second with a quick sweep of his blade. The third cut at the fallen knight but had his stroke blocked. As the fight went on, Tabren began to see why Morhault used the bastard sword as his weapon. Unlike a normal shield, Morhault's gauntlet left his hand free, and he would shift back and forth between a one-handed and two-handed grip as the situation demanded.

Seeing how badly his men were doing, Krasek turned to the last of his thugs.

"Now would be good, Veylhan."

The thug didn't reach for his sword; instead, he took out a foot-long wooden rod from beneath his tunic. The rod was carved with ornate runic symbols, and the way Veylhan started chanting and waving it around particularly reeked of magic. After a couple of seconds a shimmering pinpoint of red light appeared in the air before him. While magicians were not common in Kyre, nine years of minstrel's songs at the inn hearth suggested that this was conjury, the art of summoning monsters or elementals to do the magician's will. It wasn't as direct as throwing lightning bolts or tornadoes, but Tabren had the idea it would be adequate here.

Krasek eyed the magician, then the fight, and drew his sword, probably figuring he'd have to intervene to give Veylhan the time necessary to conjure and bind whatever he was calling up. He launched a vicious attack on Morhault, saving the life of his last thug when the renegade had to break off a strike to parry the blow. The two enemies began to battle furiously, their swordsmanship better than anything Tabren had ever seen on the docks. They were trained warriors, the kind who had spent long years learning how to fight and more years coupling that knowledge with practical battle experience, unlike most seamen who learned by brawling and survival.

Meanwhile, the red light began to swell, expanding into an orb a foot across, then two, then three, striped with shades of crimson that pulsed in time with Veylhan's chanting. The question was whether or not he'd have the time to complete the binding.

It looked like he'd get the time, because as best as Tabren could see the fight was something like a stalemate. Morhault's edge in equipment--Krasek lacked a shield--was offset by the extra fighter on the blond soldier's side. Morhault couldn't divert enough attention from Krasek to cut down the dockyard brawler. Veylhan continued his chanting, sweat from the effort standing out on his face. The orb continued to grow, its outline rippling as it began to take on characteristics.

Suddenly, everything changed. The ruddy light cast by the conjuring was replaced by blinding silver-blue flames. The fighting men squinted against the light and disengaged.

"Veylhan, you pox-ridden idiot, what are you _doing_?" screamed Krasek.

The magician was gesturing frantically with his want, trying to bring the spell back under his control.

"It's not me!" he pleaded. "Something's gone completely wrong!"

The thug abandoned the fight entirely, scampering for the end of the alley. Krasek wasn't far behind, though his retreat had more dignity.

"Another time, Morhault," he promised.

"I'll be looking forward to it," the renegade knight ground out through clenched teeth.

Veylhan gave up on any further attempts at magic and bolted. A moment later, any semblance of remaining control vanished, and in a thunderous yet somehow quiet and self-contained explosion, the flaming sphere tore itself apart. Veylhan was launched about ten feet through the air to land sprawling, yet Tabren, who was just as close, was somehow untouched. Krasek yanked his man to his feet by the collar and hauled him off.

It seemed, though, that the conjuring had not been a complete failure. At least, it had managed to come up with _something_. Tabren couldn't think of any other explanation for how the unconscious form of a young woman could have appeared in the middle of the alley.


	2. The Lady Wakes

The man once known as Sir Morhault of the Lion Knights of Ilan took a deep breath as he surveyed the remains of the chaos in the alley. He cleaned his bastard sword and slipped it back into its sheath, then turned to the boy from the inn. The young man was shaking like a leaf. _And why shouldn't he be_? Morhault thought. He'd been stalked and captured, there'd been a bloody battle, and out-of-control magic besides.

"Boy," he called, "are you all right?"

"Y-yes, I think so," the young man said. Physically well, probably; emotionally, not as good, Morhault judged. He was glad he'd decided to follow when he had seen the two thugs watching the boy; Krasek was notorious for leaving people dead when he was finished interrogating them. It was a sloppy habit, Morhault thought, then decided it wasn't really the time to catalog his rival's flaws.

"Krasek didn't hurt you?"

"He didn't get the chance," the inn-boy replied, his voice a bit steadier. "You showed up too soon. What about this woman? Where did she come from?"

"Search me." Morhault shrugged. "Althena only knows where a conjuring ends up pointing when it goes wrong. I'm just happy we didn't end up with an alley full of inferno ghouls or something." He frowned thoughtfully. "What's your name, anyway? I can't keep calling you 'boy' like you were some kind of pet."

"My name's Tabren, sir."

In spite of himself, Morhault grinned.

"I think we can skip the 'sir,' though I approve of your prudence."

"Prudence?"

"It always pays to be polite to someone who's armed when you're not."

He knelt down next to the unconscious woman. She was little more than a girl, really, about nineteen or twenty. Pretty, too, with the refined, elegant features that nobles like to think come from being born to high station and skin a light, nut-brown shade. She wore a simple white dress that looked vaguely Caldorish but was really too plain to belong to any particular style. Her most striking feature was her waist-length ocean-blue hair, a fairly rare shade outside of portraits of the Goddess.

"Is she all right, si--Morhault, I mean?"

Morhault suppressed a wince. Tabren's slip had come out a little too close to "Sir Morhault" for comfort. Even after ten years' time and plenty of practice becoming thick-skinned, old feelings would still well up when he least expected them, like a war wound that ached when the seasons were turning.

"Well, she doesn't seem injured. The Goddess only knows what being forcibly dragged through a halfwit magician's out-of-control conjuring could do to a person's insides."

"We can't leave her in this alley," Tabren said.

"No, we can't," Morhault agreed. "Let's take her back to the Laughing Dolphin and get her settled into bed. Then we can have a healer take a look at her. For all I know there are whole chapters on the aftereffects of miscast conjurings in the medical books." He looked over the two fallen thugs, then drew his dagger and neatly cut their purse strings.

Tabren looked at him questioningly--and not a little repelled. Apparently there was a difference between killing people in self-defense and looting their bodies afterwards in Madorian custom.

"Well, it was Krasek's henchman who brought the lady here," Morhault explained.

"Um, yes, but how--"

"So it's only fitting that these henchmen contribute to her medical expenses."

Tabren chuckled, then glanced down at the corpse.

"What do we do with these two?"

"Leave them," Morhault said with a shrug. "Cleaning up the bodies--and the possessions--of dead and unconscious criminals provides honest employment for urchins and beggars in every city on Lunar. Besides, such charity to the downtrodden will probably do their souls some good--which I'm sure at least one of them is in need of right about now. Get the lady's feet, Tabren, and I'll take her shoulders."

Having run out of questions, Tabren took her feet.

-X X X-

Lil, the innkeeper, was moved to immediate sympathy by the girl her nephew and her guest had brought back. A nice, airy room with a lake view was found for the lady, and no sooner was she laid on the bed and the coverlet pulled up then Tabren was sent off to find Edric, the best healer in the district, and fetch him back to the inn. Being the kind of woman who had a lot of respect for men who rescued her nephew and stopped to help young ladies, Lil ordered up a steaming mug of mulled wine to aid Morhault in soothing the aches and pains brought on by swordplay. The hot, spiced wine was good and he drank it slowly, savoring the taste, so he was only halfway done when the boy came back.

The healer Edric was in his early fifties, a vigorous man with white hair and beard. Despite the long green robe he like most healers in this part of the world wore, Edric moved with brisk efficiency, setting the leather satchel containing his supplies down on the bed.

"You say this girl was conjured up by a magician?" he asked directly, not bothering with introductions. Apparently Tabren had been telling him the facts on the way.

"That's right," Morhault said. The innkeeper, who hadn't heard the whole story, gasped in surprise. "His spell sort of blew up in his face, and instead of whatever horrors he was trying for, he ended up getting this woman."

"Typical," Edric grunted. "Magicians always seem to find some way to screw up decent people's lives. Can't figure if it's more trouble when they get the spells right or wrong."

Morhault raised an eyebrow.

"I'm surprised. As a healer with a good reputation, don't you use magic in your work?"

"Of course," the bearded physician replied, checking the girl from broken bones and similar injuries. "Can't get around it. A good healing cantrip will help injuries mend three, four times as fast and keeps out infection and wound-rot better than any poultice. Can't criticize the priests and such who use Althena's power, either. But that's speeding along what the body would have done by itself if you gave it time, or in the worst cases fixing something broken back up how it should be. Throwing around lightning bolts or calling up beasties, now, that's a different story. Once you start turning natural laws on their head, there's no telling where you'll end up."

He held up a hand for silence while he pressed his fingertips against the inside of the girl's wrist.

"Were you ever in the army?" Morhault wondered aloud when Edric had moved on from the patient's pulse.

"Fifteen years with the Nota infantry. Best way I could think of to get a healer's apprenticeship and support myself so my parents wouldn't have to. How'd you guess?"

"You've got the same attitude as every field healer I've ever met. There's just something about magic that offends the military mind."

Edric snorted.

"That's easy enough to explain. You train and train as a soldier to be the best fighter possible, and then some magician comes along and drops a meteor on your head, so where did all your training and formation and tactics get you?"

"Is that really possible?" Tabren asked. "Dropping a meteor on someone, I mean?"

"I once saw a Master of the Magic Guild of Vane fling around a bunch of exploding boulders," Morhault mused. "I don't know about meteors, though."

Edric turned away from the girl and began rummaging through his medical bag.

"All right, she's not wounded, she doesn't have any broken bones, her breathing and pulse are normal, and she's not feverish. I'm betting it's just the shock of getting jerked around magically, kind of like how a magician will pass out from the effort if he slings one too many spells right after one another." He took out a tiny clay cup, about the size of a pipe bowl, and packed it with a mixture of dried herbs from a glass phial. "This should bring her around," he explained, striking flint and steel to spark the herbs alight. "If it doesn't, it'll mean there's something really wrong with her that her body's trying to fix, and we're better off letting her stay asleep."

Edric cupped his hand behind the girl's head and raised her face slightly so he could hold the smoking mixture beneath her nose. Glancing back at Morhault, he asked offhandedly, "Wonder where your conjuring friend managed to come up with a woman with Althena-blue hair?"

"Fun with magic," Tabren quipped. "Why just conjure up pretty girls when you can get them in unusual colors, too?"

Morhault and Edric grinned at each other.

"I like this kid," the healer said. "He's got the right attitude."

"He's also got chores," Lil pointed out.

"Aunt Lil!"

"The poor girl doesn't need an audience, but there are other customers who do need us. Now, come on." She shepherded the young man out and closed the door behind them.

With the distractions out of the way, Edric held the cup under the girl's nose and moved it back and forth slightly to waft the smoke upwards to her nostrils. For a few moments she continued to breathe normally, but then her facial muscles clenched, she coughed twice, and then while gasping for air she raised her eyelids to reveal the most brilliantly sapphire-blue eyes Morhault had ever seen.

Edric immediately took the burning herbs away and snuffed the fire.

"Welcome back to the real world."

Her eyes roamed around the room, flitting back and forth, taking in her surroundings with increasing panic.

"W-where am I?"

"A room in the Laughing Dolphin Inn, in Kyre," Morhault provided, and saw the girl's eyes open even wider.

"H-how did I g-get here?"

Edric snorted again.

"Magic," he stated flatly.

The girl was trembling with fear now; her hands clutched at the coverlet and twisted it between her fingers.

"Don't worry," Morhault quickly tried to reassure her. "We weren't the ones who did it. It was a conjuror, who lost control of his spell and transported you to this city. This is Edric, a healer. We thought it best to have him take a look at you."

"A-am I all right?" she quavered.

"Well," Edric said, "so far as I can tell, you are. I can't swear to it, but I think the shock from the magic just made you faint. Do you feel any pain?"

She pursed her lips as if thinking it over carefully, then shook her head.

"Good. While we're asking questions, here's a simple one. What's your name?"

"M-my name?"

"Don't you know?"

She screwed up her face, thinking hard.

"E-Elia! My name is Elia!" she exclaimed happily.

"Good," Edric said. "When I was an army healer I could get by with 'hey you,' but my civilian patients tend to do better when I can talk to them like they're individuals."

Elia smiled shyly. The expression suited the softness of her face.

"So where are you from?" Morhault asked. "If we're going to get you back home, or at least start you on your way, we'll need to know."

"Oh, no, I couldn't ask--"

"Of course you could. That magician was going to send whatever he conjured after me, so in a backhanded kind of way I'm responsible for you being here."

Edric gave him a dark look.

"How did anyone with those kind of instincts ever get himself kicked out of the Lion Knights?" Apparently Tabren had gotten through a _lot_ of the story.

"Even mercenaries can be chivalrous once in a while. By the way, was it the boy who told you who I was?"

"Yes; he gave me the whole story on the way over. Twice. Besides, I've heard the ballads."

"Ah, yes, those fine examples of the minstrel's art. Tell me, did you hear the version where I was Magic Emporer Ghaleon reincarnated, laughing in delight at the bloodbath I created, or the one where I was secretly a spy for Nota's mercantile interests looking to redirect trade northwards?"

"Actually, in the one I remember most you stood around reciting poetic speeches about the philosophical nature of honor. You're much less pompous in real life."

"I still like the spy version best. If things had actually happened that way I would have gotten paid."

Edric laughed sharply, appreciating the point. He looked like he was about to return the quip, but a gasp from Elia made both men drop the discussion immediately.

"What's wrong?" Morhault cried, stunned by the look of stark terror on the girl's face.

"I c-can't remember! I don't k-know where I'm f-from or what I was doing when I was brought here, or anything at all about my life!"


	3. Towards the Past

Morhault rubbed his chin thoughtfully, considering what Elia had said. His initial moment of panic had ebbed when he'd learned the source of her fear wasn't an immediate threat, but a clear head wasn't giving him any ideas.

"I've heard of such things before, but never actually witnessed it firsthand."

He kept to himself the thought that he'd mostly heard of it as a cliche in melodramatic Lytonese opera. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to realize that what might cause a sigh and a groan when heard in a story was a much different affair when it was happening to oneself.

Edric nodded in agreement.

"Amnesia, we healers call it. A partial or total loss of memory, which can be caused by physical injury or some kind of mental shock."

"D-does that mean that you know how to cure me?"

The bearded healer sighed in resignation.

"I'm afraid not, Elia. Wounds, broken bones, many diseases, and infections, those things I can handle. The mind, though, that's another story altogether." He scratched his chin. "From what I hear, sometimes memories come back on their own. Other times, the condition is permanent. As for actually fixing the problem, I wouldn't even know where to start, especially since magic could be involved."

Tears began to well up in her eyes. Suddenly, the door opened and Tabren slipped inside before closing it behind him.

"I snuck out of the kitchen when Aunt Lil had to collect a customer's bill. Hey, she's awake!"

"Tabren, meet Elia," Morhault said. "Elia, this is Tabren, who helped me bring you here."

"Thank you, Tabren," she said graciously.

"Are you all right?"

"Well, yes and no," Edric answered for her. "Physically, she seems fine, but she can't remember anything about her past life."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed the boy. "That's awful!"

"That's what we thought," said Morhault. He drained the last of his wine, which had cooled to lukewarm during the excitement, and turned back to the healer.

"So, who would know how to cure this...amnesia, you called it?"

"Yes, amnesia. It would have to be an expert healer, one who's studied for more than just the basic craft."

"What about a priest of Althena?"

Edric thought it over.

"If it was something physical, I'd say yes, absolutely. The priesthood studies the most powerful healing magics; the best of them can call someone back from the very edge of death. The problem is that a good _priest_ isn't necessarily a good _healer_, and probably isn't learned in medicine." His brow furrowed as he considered the problem. "My old master lives in Nota; he's getting up in years but is still practicing. They made him Chief Physician of the city military, and he's not going to retire until he's pounded a few basic truths into the healer corps. Wants to get it so that even if they replace him with the Mayor's brother-in-law good medical practice will be second nature to everyone." Grinning in remembrance he added, "I remember when I was an apprentice he'd rip you up one side and down the other if you forgot to wash your hands first--even if we weren't working on a live patient. Anyway, if he doesn't know how to help Elia, he's sure to have heard of someone who ought to."

"Nota," Morhault thought aloud, picturing the distance between Kyre and the largest town on the Madoria Plains. Depending on how fit Elia was, they could get there in four or five days, possibly a week if they took it more slowly. "Well, I don't have any pressing business here in Kyre, and the walk would probably do me good."

"Typical cavalry type," Edric commented to no one in particular. "He thinks walking is fun."

"You'd escort me?" Elia asked, surprised. "Why? I couldn't pay you anything; I don't even know if I have any money."

Morhault shrugged.

"You interest me. Besides, helping a woman find her memory sounds a lot less depressing than most of the usual mercenary jobs. Even renegade knights like to take time off now and again from killing people and breaking things."

Elia blushed.

"I think I may gag on all this chivalry," the healer noted.

When the door flew open, Morhault didn't even blink. He'd been expecting it ever since Tabren had put in an appearance.

"And exactly _what_ are you doing back here?" Lil demanded from her nephew. The Laughing Dolphin's owner wasn't a big woman, but she'd perfected the commanding manner of a queen. Confidence was not something she lacked, especially when she knew very well she was in the right.

"I wanted to be here if anything happened," Tabren said defiantly. "See, Elia's awake!" He pointed at the blue-haired girl now sitting up in bed.

"Oh, good afternoon, miss. My name is Lil, and this is my inn. I hope you're feeling well."

"Thank you; it's very kind of you to let me stay here."

"It's no trouble. Just thinking of what happened to you makes my blood boil. People who can't control magic shouldn't play around with it! I just hope it won't be too much trouble for you to get back to your home."

Elia lowered her eyes.

"That may be a bit difficult," Morhault said, "as she has no idea where that is."

"How's that?"

Edric explained about Elia's lack of memory.

"That's why I'm going to escort her to Nota, to consult with Edric's former master," Morhault finished up. "By the way, Edric, could you see your way to writing a letter of introduction for us? It might take forever to get in to see him otherwise."

"I have a better idea: I'll come along and introduce you in person."

"All right, so why?"

"I haven't seen the old man for a few years, and this is an interesting case. I'd like to know more about it."

"And of course, chivalry doesn't enter into it at all," Morhault drawled.

"So I feel a little responsibility for Elia. I'm giving my opinion as a healer that she's fit to make an overland journey. If it turns out that I've made a mistake, I'd like to be on hand to help. That's not chivalry; that's professionalism."

"I see," the renegade noted dryly. Elia just giggled.

"I'm going to go, too," Tabren declared, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. His aunt, in particular, gave him a look that suggested he should be rethinking his travel plans. "I'm serious," he insisted. "I want to go to Nota with you."

"The chivalry bug getting to you, too?" Morhault inquired mildly.

The boy had the good grace to look sheepish.

"All right, so part of me does want to help out a maiden in distress. That isn't all, though. I'm fifteen now, and I'm not apprenticed to a trade. Unless Aunt Lil marries, I'll inherit the inn, but that's decades away, hopefully. I want to go out into the world and make a place for myself," he said earnestly.

Lil frowned.

"What makes you think that you can do better in Nota than you can here?"

"I don't think so, necessarily...but this is an opportunity to get out, to do something useful." He turned to Morhault. "You're going to be protecting Elia along the way. That means you'll need somebody to watch your back while you watch hers. I'm no soldier, but I can handle myself fairly well--at least enough that you wouldn't have to constantly keep an eye on me."

Tabren had almost backed into a valid point, thought Morhault. Looking after noncombatants in a traveling party was one of the things the fallen knight hated most in a battle. The type of people who attacked travelers tended to go after the weakest members of a group, and predatory monsters did the exact same thing by instinct as bandits did by strategy. While Elia was a totally unknown quantity, it was clear to anyone who had even a passing familiarity with weapons that her build wasn't that of a fighter. Edric could probably take care of himself, since a military healer would receive basic combat training which combined with his strength would probably make him as dangerous as the average highwayman if not more. Adding Tabren would give Elia two competent protectors to shield her while Morhault concentrated on the serious business of killing the enemy.

Of course, he had no intention of admitting any of that out loud. Lil was Tabren's guardian, and therefore she had the final say. Morhault wasn't going to undercut that authority; it would be irresponsible and probably immoral.

"Kids," Edric murmured. "I don't know what it is about them, but they can smell adventure coming from miles away."

For that matter, Morhault could catch a faint whiff of adventure, too. It was the mystery of it, he decided after some thought. A beautiful maiden appears by magic out of nowhere, her past a secret, her appearance unusual and striking. It all spoke of hidden truths and dangers.

"You're really serious about this?" Lil asked, giving her nephew an assessing gaze. No doubt she was trying to figure out whether he was just a kid caught up in a moment, or if Elia's plight was only a spur towards making his first major life choice as a man.

"I am," Tabren said simply, maybe realizing that further pleas would only hurt his case.

"Well, it is a good chance to meet influential people," she mused. "If nothing else, you might find better opportunities for yourself in Nota than you could ever get on the waterfront."

Tabren burst into a huge grin, unable to contain his excitement. Morhault decided to spare Lil the trouble of asking permission for the boy to join them.

"I suppose that makes us four," he observed blandly.

-X X X-

As any experienced traveler knew, there was more to starting a journey than simply settling on a destination and saying, "Let's be off!" There were all kind of supplies to be arranged for, both personal and for the whole group. Edric was worst off; he had to not only prepare himself for the trip to Nota but arrange for his home and business to still be there when he returned.

"Fortunately, I have a colleague whose husband likes travel," he had explained. "I've looked after her regular patients when she was gone, so she's willing to return the favor. I don't think she'll kill too many of them."

Morhault and Tabren went about the mundane fetch-and-carry work, going to various shops and market stalls to procure food, packs, and other assorted provisions. The two of them returned to the Laughing Dolphin about the same time as Edric did. The healer had traded his green robe in on utilitarian traveling leathers, and looked like a man who was used to life on the road.

"That reminds me;" Morhault said, "we definitely need to get Elia some new clothes. She can't walk to Nota in those dancing slippers of hers."

Lil had overheard their comments and came out from behind the bar, grinning broadly.

"That, gentlemen, is already taken care of." She knocked on the door to her own private room, and Elia came out.

She'd looked lovely, sitting in bed, but now, standing and walking about in apparent good health, Elia was positively beautiful. The dominant color of her clothing was a dark charcoal-gray, almost black; her high-necked shirt, low flat-heeled boots, and light kid gloves were all of that shade, while her leggings were white by contrast. Her sleeveless overtunic, though, was the exact color of her hair, making a contrast which set the whole ensemble off; it was belted at the waist and fell halfway to her knees.

"I see you approve," Lil said smugly.

"You have hidden talents, Lil," Edric said. "I never knew you had such an eye for fashion."

"Well, to be honest, it wasn't hard. This girl would look pretty in a potato sack."

"True," Morhault noted, "but not _as_ pretty."

Elia blushed shyly, but with a small smile that said she had vanity enough to be pleased by the compliments.

"You look like a real lady," Tabren echoed the praise. His comment set Morhault to thinking. Elia did look like a lady, and acted like one, too. While her gentle manner could be that of any kind-hearted woman from any level of society (and was probably exaggerated, anyway, by fear and uncertainty), the dress and shoes she'd worn suggested wealth. Common girls who worked for a living didn't wear dainty cloth slippers, nor did they have perfectly kept skin and nails.

That could be good or bad. If they were unable to restore Elia's memory, it would be much easier to restore her to her home if she had a monied family looking for her. The flip side to that was the problems and politics of the aristocracy. Morhault had gotten involved with the upper class before, generally to his sorrow. He preferred the honest, direct work of soldiering.

"Come on, everyone," Lil invited. "You can at least get one good meal into you before you sentence yourselves to a week's worth of trail-rations and campfire cookery."

Tabren grinned and bolted for the dining room. Edric and Elia followed along at a more sedate pace, but Morhault lagged behind and touched Lil's arm lightly to get her attention.

"How much did it cost?"

"What?"

"That ensemble of Elia's. How much was it?"

She gave him a sharp look.

"And what business is it of yours?"

"Well, so far you've provided a free room--one of your better ones, with bath, I might add--and free food, not to mention your time."

Lil shook her head.

"I'll pay my debts in my own way."

This puzzled Morhault.

"I don't understand. What debt could you possibly owe to Elia? You only met her yesterday."

She shook her head at him again.

"It's got nothing to do with her. Don't get me wrong; I like the girl well enough and I'm sorry for what happened to her, but so far as owing people anything it's _you_ I'm indebted to. I'm helping Elia because you seem to feel obligated towards her and it's the easiest way for me to get at least a little even."

Morhault blinked.

"Now I _really_ don't understand. What could you possibly owe me?"

Lil planted her hands on her hips and glared up at him, clearly growing exasperated with his thickheadedness.

"You saved Tabren's life, you big idiot!"

"It was my enemy that put him in danger in the first place," he noted with an offhand shrug.

"Listen; I've run this inn for over two decades. Men with enemies are three for a silver on the waterfront, and not one of them would jump into five-to-one odds to save a boy they barely knew. They would have changed inns, or gotten on the next boat, or at best gone running for the law or a pack of their mates."

"They say knight-errantry is a lot like the gout; once it's in you, it never goes away," the renegade observed sardonically.

"Self-pity won't change the truth."

Morhault considered a response to that, but before he settled on one, a voice from the door interrupted.

"Um, excuse me, but we were wondering if you were coming soon?" Elia said. She had an odd expression, which made Morhault think about how much of the conversation she'd heard, and what her opinions might be.


	4. On the Road to Nota

An excellent dinner, a good night's sleep, and a hearty breakfast raised everyone's spirits for the start of the journey. So did the pack horse Morhault had obtained at a reasonable price from one of Lil's friends. People who intended to walk all day for several days on end often found untold bliss in the idea of lightening their loads, the renegade had found.

Unfortunately, the weather did not play along with the genial mood. Gray skies at dawn blossomed into drizzle by mid-morning and later settled down into a steady, dismal rain that made everyone pull their cloaks around themselves and huddle against the inevitable chill. There was something about that kind of dull, gray day that bred silence and reserve in even the most outgoing people; the little group of travelers was made up of relative strangers, and the cold and depressing atmosphere gave them no motivation to extend themselves.

Inevitably, it was Edric, oldest of the four and the least susceptible to the effects of the surroundings, who broke the spell. He trudged ahead to the front of the group and fell into step beside Morhault.

"What's bugging you?"

"Eh?"

"You've had that same scowl on your face for the last six miles," Edric informed him. "That's a long way. So, either you have sore feet or you're thinking hard about something important." He paused for a second. "Is it the girl?"

Morhault shook his head slightly.

"No, it's Krasek."

"That's the man from the alley? The one who was after Tabren because of you, right?"

"Yeah."

"You don't like letting him get away from you, do you?"

The fallen knight shook his head again.

"No, I don't. I knew he was in Kyre and all I did was leave town. I didn't try to get in his path; I didn't even let the local law know he was around. I feel like I'm running away, which galls me even more." He clenched his fist sharply. "Every time I run across that man, people get hurt. I suppose that isn't too unnatural; people tend to get hurt around him whether I'm there or not."

"Who is he, anyway?" Edric asked.

"A mercenary. As I understand it, he was the younger son of a noble from the southern Marius Zone."

Edric cut him off before he could continue.

"The Marius Zone? Since when is there an aristocracy in the Marius Zone? Even that seaport the Meribians founded on the south coast just has an appointed magistrate."

Morhault shrugged.

"The way I heard it, Krasek's grandfather was a jumped-up bandit chief who got himself a small army and latched onto a chunk of terrain--a fort, a couple of villages, that sort of thing. His son was strong enough to hold the loyalty of his soldiers, so there it was: hereditary nobility."

"One generation. Sounds about right."

The fallen knight grinned at the healer.

"This from a man whose home city elects its ruler?"

"From the aristocracy--well, the aristocracy of money at least. Nota's council is made up of the ten richest merchants and the mayor is elected from them."

"Elected _by_ the general population, though."

Edric chuckled.

"Well, I figure an uneducated turnip farmer and an overbred fop likely have roughly the same level of judgment, so why not give them the same voting rights?"

"Why not, indeed?"

"Okay, enough with the comparative government debates. Let's get back to Krasek."

Morhault's face immediately lost the humor it had picked up during the change of subject, settling into a flat, expressionless mask.

"Krasek decided that despite being the younger son, he was best suited to be his father's heir. There was a certain amount of family strife over his assertion, so Krasek put an end to the disagreement by murdering his father and older brother."

"A somewhat direct solution."

"It didn't work, though. A fair percentage of the armsmen disapproved and attempted to revolt, while others gave up on the whole mess and left for greener pastures. While all this was going on, another warlord got ambitious and swept across the entire little fief. Instead of a title, Krasek wound up not even having a home. Since then he's been a mercenary; it's the place fighting men and women tend to end up when their lives go in the tank," Morhault added sardonically. "He gets a lot of work from unscrupulous merchants and power-hungry warlords; he's clever, competent, and has no morality at all. Law and order are poison to him, so he tends to spend very little time in the Katarina Zone."

"I'm surprised there aren't any ballads about _him_."

"He wouldn't have gotten into the Lion Knights in the first place. It's that touch of decency gone wrong that makes for a tragic song. Villains from first to last like Krasek only make tragedies in real life."

"I suppose that's true."

They walked quietly for a minute or so, listening to the rain echo off the road's surface and the soft clip-clop of the horse's hooves. Most of the time Tabren was in charge of leading the animal, though the others traded off with him now and again.

"What on Lunar was he _doing_ in Kyre?" Morhault suddenly exclaimed, the nagging buzz in his thoughts refusing to stay silent any longer.

"I thought he was looking for you."

"No; we hate each other, but he wouldn't chase me from town to town. The odds are, he just happened to see me and decided to take the opportunity." He shrugged and observed, "Probably I'd do the same thing, though I hope I wouldn't go dragging in innocent bystanders. I'm sure Krasek had other business in Kyre, and that has to mean bad news for someone."

"Are you wishing you'd stayed to fight him?"

"Maybe." He glanced back over his shoulder at Elia and Tabren. "Mostly, I'm annoyed with myself for not thinking of it before we left. It's not like me to ignore the obvious. I probably wouldn't have stayed even if I had known; playing at epic rivalry is for heroes and knights, not mercenaries. Still, there's a mayor and cityguard and Kyre who might have been interested that a noted killer had business in town."

As the two men had moved out ahead, Elia had in the meantime dropped back alongside Tabren. She looked pensive, her eyes looking down at her feet while she walked.

"Is something wrong, Elia?"

She looked up, startled.

"Oh! I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bother you," Tabren hastily apologized.

"Oh, no, it's not a bother at all. I just didn't realize that I was making you worry."

"No, you weren't making me worry--"

"It isn't that there's anything wrong--" she said at the same time. They stopped simultaneously, looked at one another for a second, and broke into laughter.

"I'm glad Morhault and Edric are up the road there," the boy commented sheepishly.

"Maybe they could use the entertainment?"

There was nothing quite so silly, Tabren reflected, as two people insisting on being concerned for each other's feelings. He just wasn't used to being around ladies, that was the problem. _Any_ ladies, let alone beautiful and mysterious ones. The Laughing Dolphin just wasn't a hangout for the genteel. If Elia had been haughty and arrogant it wouldn't have mattered since he wouldn't have cared, then, about how she found him. If she had been one of the adventurous type, an aristocrat who indulged in hunting, gambling, dueling, politics, and similar hobbies and carouses he'd have been on more stable footing. A gently reared lady, though, was something different. She wouldn't be used to the rough-and-ready manners of an inn-boy, and there was something about Elia that made him want to be in her good graces.

He sighed, then threw caution to the wind and plunged ahead with the question he'd wanted to ask.

"What's it like, not having any memory?"

Tabren hoped he hadn't just come across as a "let's gawk at the poor sick girl" kind of person. Apparently he hadn't; Elia's slight frown seemed to suggest she was giving his question serious thought.

"Very strange," she finally admitted with a sheepish grin. "It's as if everything was different and familiar at the same time. Like this horse," she said, gesturing at it. "I know what it is and how people use them, but I can't remember any time when I've seen or ridden one. I have knowledge in my mind, but I can't relate it to anything real. It's like...the entire world was something I'd read about in a book somewhere and this is my first time in it."

"I suppose that it's frustrating, not knowing about your family." His eyes widened as a thought struck him. "You might have a husband somewhere, or even children!"

She shook her head slightly.

"I don't think that I do."

"Oh?"

"Well, I didn't have any wedding jewelry, for one thing. It's more than that, though; I don't have any sense of family at all. Most of the time, when I try to think about things, there's this nagging sensation of there being something there _to_ know, like a hole in my mind waiting to be filled, like when I try to think of home or what I did for a living. For the question of family, though, there's nothing at all, not even a sense of absence. So no, I don't believe that I have a family, at least not one that I live with and share their lives."

"That's sad," Tabren said. An orphan himself, he knew what it felt like to be alone, though at least his aunt had always been there for him.

"I don't think so. At least it means that I can be here, going through this experience, without someone worried sick about me at home. I hope that's true, at least. Vague feelings might not be too reliable, not when I really don't know anything."

There wasn't much one could say to that.

A day of rain was one thing, but when it continued for six straight, the travelers were beginning to feel waterlogged.

"I never expected Adventure to be so wet," Tabren complained.

"Then you've learned something already," Morhault said, chuckling. "One of the constants of life on the road is that Althena always seems to be answering someone else's prayers about the weather. Luckily we're not down in the Stadius Zone."

"Why is that?"

"Lousy roads down there," Edric said.

Morhault grinned at him. "I knew you'd understand. No one appreciates the finer points of road construction more than a foot soldier."

The healer didn't deign to respond, so Morhault went on with his explanation.

"First of all, look at the road. See how much gravel is mixed in with the dirt? Well, as I'm sure you know, stone sheds water instead of absorbing it."

"I've met very few soggy rocks," Tabren agreed.

"Well, that way there's always a certain percentage of the surface that won't get muddy. It's not as good as cobblestones, of course, but cobbling the entire road is a little outside the scope of possibility unless someone brought in a _lot_ of magic. Now, you'll also notice how the road is higher in the center? That encourages the rainwater to drain off to the sides of the road instead of just sinking in. A road like this is much harder to reduce to a soggy morass than an ordinary dirt path. Our boots might be getting a bit muddy, but if we were, say, between Lyton and Meryod we'd be in it up to our ankles by now."

"Not a bad summary," Edric said approvingly, then added, "for someone who usually sees the road from the top of a horse." Elia giggled at that one.

"Actually, no," Morhault corrected him. "A horse is expensive to maintain on a mercenary's wages unless you're part of an organized company. I can take a far more varied collection of jobs without one in tow, also. Take the job that brought me to Kyre: a merchant was worried about lake pirates, so he wanted a troop of marines on his boat to protect his cargo."

"I can see how a horse might be troublesome for that one," the healer noted.

"I thought so, yes."

While the roads might have been fairly dry, the weather still managed to make trouble. While major trade routes were often dotted with inns along the way, the Madoria Plains were too lightly--and newly--settled to feature such amenities. Waterproofed tents made those nights actually drier than the days, but getting a fire started could turn into a quest all on its own. By what they hoped would be the last night the only wood they could find was completely waterlogged and the condition of the tinder was even worse.

"Well, I guess it's a cold supper tonight," Morhault reflected as Edric put away his tinderbox in disgust.

"What's wrong?" Elia asked, tying the last tent cord in place. Morhault had been revising his opinion of her during the trip. She might have looked delicate and fragile, but she was bearing up under the monotony of all-day walks as well as any of them, and had cheerfully accepted her fair share of the camp chores once various tasks were explained to her.

"Wet wood," the healer told her. "With some dry tinder I could get it lit, but there's none of that, either."

"Oh, let me help."

Elia came over to the firepit, knelt, and held her hand out palm down over the wood. She closed her eyes, then chanted a quick phrase made up of odd syllables in a low voice. The wood erupted into a steady flame that hissed as raindrops struck it; the girl opened her eyes and smiled. Edric looked at her, open-mouthed, while Morhault merely smiled wryly and remarked, "How interesting."

"What's interesting?" Tabren asked as he came over after finishing with the horse.

"It seems our lovely refugee from the wilds of magic is herself a magician."

Elia's eyes widened.

"Oh. I suppose that must be true, mustn't it?"

"I'd have thought the spell you just cast would have been your first clue," Edric grumbled.

"Down, boy," Morhault reproved. To Elia he said, "I presume this all just came to you?"

She nodded, clearly still trying to come to terms with the ramifications of what had just happened.

"Yes, I don't really understand it all. I was just trying to think of something I could do to help you with the fire, and suddenly the spell was in my mind. I didn't even think about what that meant until you said something. It just seemed so natural it didn't even make me stop and think that it was a new fact about me."

"Well, that makes sense. A magician wouldn't think twice about using magic, so in that instant you didn't realize something important had happened."

Elia brushed the sheen of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. She couldn't have been a terribly strong mage, Morhault thought, if such a minor spell had caused a reaction.

"It's too bad that you don't belong to the Magic Guild of Vane," Edric said. "They could have identified you immediately and filled in your background from Guild records."

"How do you know that I'm not in the Magic Guild?" she asked curiously. "I can't remember one way or another."

"No badge," he said succinctly.

"Guild members don't always wear formal rank-marked robes, especially if they're traveling out in the world, but they do keep their Guild badge on hand for identification," Morhault elaborated.

She frowned, accepting their judgment.

"Is that a bad thing? I mean, does it make me an outlaw or something?" She frowned again, then shook her head sharply. "No, that can't be right."

"No, as a matter of fact _most_ magicians aren't members, especially those at the lower levels of power, even if you discount priests of Althena or those who are just healers like Edric."

"_Just_ healers? Amazing how many of you warrior types come howling to the physician's tent for _just_ healers to use an infection-fighting spell to keep a sword cut from going gangrenous, or a charm to keep the blood in your body when you've been hacked open."

Tabren turned a bit green at the imagery while Morhault chuckled.

"I don't mean to denigrate your art," the fallen knight pointed out. "I just meant that magically-talented healers usually don't work any other magic, so like priests they form a separate category that wouldn't be joining the Magic Guild anyway, so they shouldn't be included in an analysis of what percentage of Lunar's magicians have Guild membership."

"My head hurts," groaned Tabren in mock agony. "I didn't know Adventure would _ever_ involve _math_."

"You can blame the Lion Knights for that. They give their pages and squires a good across-the-board education in history, literature, and mathematics besides teaching them to fight."

He put aside his misspent youth and got back to the original topic.

"One nice thing, though, is this answers at least one question about you, Elia."

"Really?"

"Yes; I'd been wondering why an aristocratic lady was doing so well on the road."

"Oh, I see; of course, a traveling magician would be more used to walking long distances and making camp along the way."

Unfortunately, Morhault thought, even with one oddity explained there were any number of others left over. Most of which, he expected, were going to come back and bite them.


	5. At the Red Gryphon

Unusual and impressive places are one of the traveler's chief pleasures in life, and to judge by Tabren and Elia's wide-eyed expressions, the town of Nota was more than obliging in that respect.

"I'd heard stories about Nota, but in real life, it's amazing!" the young man exclaimed, the magician's head bobbing in agreement. Edric, a native of the town, just looked smug.

Morhault, for his part, had been there before, but it was always worth a second look. Nota was built right into the rock face of two towering cliffs on the east and west sides of the Azado River, in a series of stepped terraces that rose up the buttes. Clusters of houses and shops actually were built into the cliffs, while others stood free. At the very highest level a broad span bridged the gap, providing an easy crossing. The effort climb up one side and down the other with a load of cargo was nothing compared to that needed to ferry across the turbulent and treacherous Azado.

The bridge was really what Nota was about, Morhault knew. Nota was the trade hub between the Madoria Plains in the east, the Katarina and Marius Zones to the west, and the northwestern Stadius Zone to the south. Trade had brought it into being, and trade had made it into Lunar's second-largest city all in less than two centuries.

The story was fairly straightforward. Three hundred years ago the Magic Emporer, Ghaleon, had led an army of the outcast Vile Tribe to attempt to conquer Lunar and enslave the Goddess Althena. The last Dragonmaster, Alex, defeated Ghaleon, but not until a cataclysmic series of magical events had taken place. One of these cataclysms had, apparently, released Althena's holy light into a corner of Lunar previously left barren, and so the southern tip of what had been the barren and accursed Frontier became the fertile area known as the Madoria Plains. Since the Plains were rich in good farmland and previously untapped natural resources, settlements began to spring up there almost at once, but trade was another matter entirely. To ship goods south into the Stadius Zone, then west through Tamur and Meryod to the Marius Zone and finally north to the wealthy cities of the Katarina Zone was long, hazardous, and unprofitable. It didn't take long for someone to realize that bridging the Azado, while an expensive undertaking, was sure to pay off almost immediately. It had, and spectacularly so.

Edric took the group to a large inn in a bustling neighborhood on one of the middle terraces on the east side.

"The Red Gryphon," Tabren read. "Why this one?"

"You see the bathhouse next door?"

"Yes," he remarked dubiously.

"Same owners. When you stay at the inn, they give you a free pass to the bathhouse."

"Thank you," Elia said with wholehearted appreciation.

"Girls," Tabren muttered. "We get rained on all day for most of a week, and the first thing she wants when we finally get out of the water is a bath."

"It's not the same thing at all," she replied archly. Morhault just grinned.

The Red Gryphon was a clean, spacious inn. Its clientele was a bit more upscale and the common rooms larger, but otherwise it was very similar to the Laughing Dolphin: neat and well-kept by a skilled staff that cared about their work. The meat was tasty, the bread fresh-baked, and the house wine above average. The prices were reasonable, too. All in all, Morhault concluded, Edric knew his inns. He made a mental note of the Red Gryphon's existence; one thing any traveler learns quickly is to keep track of the good places to sleep and eat.

Edric called for pen and paper as the dishes were cleared away.

"It's getting a bit late for paying calls, so I'll write a letter to Beldar saying that we're going over to the Garrison tomorrow." He dipped the quill into the ink bottle. "Good for us, so he knows not to go run an errand and leave us cooling our heels, and good for him, too. Now he has all night to remember who I am."

"That could come in handy."

He wrote swiftly in a tight, precise hand, then folded the letter and sealed it with wax. Edric wrote Chief Physician Beldar's name and title on the outside, then called over the innkeeper.

"Yes, sir?" asked the balding, middle-aged man.

"I presume you have a messenger boy or the like?"

"Of course."

"Good. I need this letter taken over to the City Garrison tonight."

"Certainly. Shall I have the boy take a reply?"

Edric shook his head.

"No need."

He handed over the letter.

"Well, now that that's done with," Elia declared, "I'm going to go take my bath!"

Morhault fought a battle with himself and lost.

"I think I'll go stretch my legs a bit."

"After walking all day for a week?" Tabren asked incredulously. "Mine are stretched enough, thank you."

"Call it a sightseeing trip," he replied dismissively. Tabren glanced at Elia, obviously getting any number of wrong ideas, but Edric caught his gaze, then nodded towards a nearby table, now empty. Morhault nodded back; the former infantryman had seen the same thing he had, two nondescript customers who had immediately developed a need to leave when Edric had spoken the magic phrase, "City Garrison." It _could_ have been coincidence, but since they'd left their excellent dinner half-eaten, he wouldn't want to wager on the prospect.

The streets outside were slick from the week's rain, and well-spaced streetlights added their flames to those of the lanterns outside inns and taverns, making the overcast night into a shadowy twilight instead of the pitch blackness it would have been in the country. Morhault soon spotted the two men; they were standing in the mouth of an alley just up the block, talking together in low voices. They weren't paying much attention to the world around them, which gave Morhault the opportunity to slip up closely enough so he could eavesdrop.

"...think he recognized us?"

"He must have. Why else would he have written to the Garrison? There'll be a squad of armsmen here in fifteen minutes, mark my words."

"I think you're being paranoid. If he was here to spy on us, why was he with such an odd group? The big man was a warrior, of course, but the boy didn't look military, and the woman wasn't even armed."

"She was probably a magician," the second man replied. His voice was shrill, unnaturally high-pitched from tension.

"All right, then, but why didn't they arrest us at once? Four against two are good odds."

"Maybe they thought we might have had others around to protect us and wanted to make sure. Or maybe you're right and they aren't all part of a team. Maybe they were just friends or family out for dinner and only the one is with the guard."

"Or maybe," the first man growled, "you panicked at nothing, because you don't have the courage to match your greed."

Morhault felt the same battle he'd fought with himself in the inn start up again. Whatever these two were up to, he wasn't a Notan cityguard. He wasn't working for their army; he wasn't even an ordinary citizen of the town with a duty to call the law. He wasn't in the hero business any more; that was over and done with. He was a mercenary with a job, to help escort a young woman while she hunted for her lost memories. Bad enough he was doing that for free. The last thing he needed to do was to add _more_ altruism on top of that. Besides, who knew if the two men were even up to something worth stopping? This was Lunar's second-largest trade center; for all he knew they were up to some illegal trade scheme, price-fixing, smuggling, or the like.

He told himself all of those things, willing himself to go back to the inn and go to bed, preferably after a trip to the men's side of the bathhouse for a long, hot soak. Morhault's feet, however, remained firmly rooted to the street.

One of these days, he thought, he was going to have to sit down and have a very long talk with his conscience. Being honorable was all well and good, but actively seeking out wrongs to right was a disaster waiting to happen.

He had finally wrestled himself into a decision to go back to the inn when he overheard something that settled the matter.

"Look," the first man declared, clearly exasperated, "if you're going to make such a fuss over it, there's an easy way to settle the matter. Any minute now, the messenger boy is going to come out of the Red Gryphon with that man's letter. It should be easy enough to grab the boy, so you can read for yourself what he wanted."

"I suspect," Morhault announced, "that could prove hazardous to your continued good health." He drew his sword as the two men spun towards his voice. Their hooded cloaks shadowed their features, but he got a glimpse of a bearded face with lips twisted in an angry snarl and an older, clean-shaven one whose chin trembled in fear. Both had only belt daggers for weapons, so despite their numbers the odds in a fight were against them.

"Oh, Fire protect me," moaned the frightened man.

"Run!" his compatriot ordered, and the two of them did just that, taking off down the alley with their cloaks flapping around their ankles. Morhault watched them until it became clear they weren't going to come back and attack the messenger, then sheathed his blade and went back to the inn.

Tabren and Elia were gone when he reentered the dining room.

"Learn anything interesting?"

"Apparently you still reek of the guard, especially when you're not in that green robe."

Morhault dropped back into his chair; Edric favored him with a sharp gaze.

"Forget fighting; you've obviously got a long-repressed desire to be a jester. Who were those two?"

"I'm not sure. Two people who don't want to be seen talking to one another was about all I got. They overheard you calling for the innkeeper, and assumed your letter was to summon guards to arrest them. Just another lesson in the dangers of listening in to only parts of a conversation. It can lead to so many interestingly wrong conclusions."

Edric shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, there's plenty of people fitting that description in the world. It could be anything from a merchant's clerk selling information to the competition to a Meribian spy plotting invasion. Plenty of money and power flying around Nota to catch people's interest."

"Yes," Morhault agreed. "I felt obliged to run them off when they debated robbing the boy of your letter, but other than that there was little to recommend the encounter."

"Well, since you prevented a mugging and protected our correspondence, I'll say thank you, even if I'm still not sure why you went after them in the first place."

Morhault shook his head.

"I'm not sure either. Ever since that girl appeared, all my chivalric instincts are kicking in again."

"Beautiful, mysterious women have been doing that to better men than you and I for centuries, and I doubt it's going to change soon."

"Very true, Edric, very true."


	6. Sage Advice

The next day dawned clear and sunny for the first time in quite a while. Morhault was glad that he had kept the two men from getting the healer's letter, because not only had Beldar received it, but he had left word with the Garrison gateguards that he was expecting a visit. It saved a lot of time that they'd otherwise have spent waiting around.

The companions were escorted by an armswoman equipped with poleaxe and mail coat through the courtyard into the inner stronghold, where they were again stopped by the sentries on duty.

"Who's this, Nara?" one of the guards asked.

"Edric the healer and party to see Chief Physician Beldar."

Another guard checked a list.

"They're here. Take them on up."

One thing Morhault had noticed during his travels was that the more important a minister or official, the higher their office would be located in the building. Probably they figured that the minor annoyances they didn't need to be disturbed by would be put off by having to climb sixty or seventy stairs; most courtiers were hopelessly out of shape. This trend had been carried to its logical conclusion in the past by Althena herself, who had supposedly lived atop a structure called the Goddess Tower. Beldar was no exception; the armswoman took them up to the fifth floor of one of the Garrison's blocky towers. A robed clerk looked up from his papers at their entry.

"This is Edric," Nara stated. The clerk nodded, got up, and knocked on the closed door leading, presumably, to the inner office.

"What is it?" growled a voice from the other side.

"I feel so welcome," Tabren observed.

"It's Edric and his companions. You're expecting them."

"I know I'm expecting them. Show them in."

The clerk sighed.

"Yes, sir."

He opened the door and Edric led the group inside. The Chief Physician's office was possibly the most cluttered room Morhault had ever seen. The bookshelves lining the walls were filled to capacity; in addition stacks of papers were everywhere, including most of the chairs. A light layer of open files and loose documents covered everything. The room's only occupant swept several papers together, tucked them into a file, and straightened up.

As expected, Beldar was an elderly man, his hair a dull gray, but he was also tall, straight-backed, and clearly still vigorous for his years. He sported a short, neatly-trimmed beard with no moustache, and hard, bright eyes looked out from his lined face. He wore a simple green healer's robe with his badge of office on a chain around his neck.

"Edric!" he barked in greeting, extending his hand. "It's been a long time. You're looking well."

"So are you, unlike this office."

"Hah!" Beldar laughed. "You know the bureaucrat's mind. They want everything all neat and organized by the Creation Festival when they conduct their audits. Well, I don't have _time_ to keep these files in order all year; I'm too busy trying to drum some sense into the healer corps. Half the apprentices think all they need to do is cast a healing spell so learning how the body actually works is a waste of time, while the other half thinks that resorting to magic at all is some kind of professional insult!"

He threw up his hands in disgust.

"So the better part of this month gets spent trying to catch up on paperwork. It's enough to drive a man insane! But enough complaining. How about a few introductions and then you can tell me about this 'interesting medical problem' in your letter? Althena knows I could use the distraction."

"All right. The lady's name is Elia; she's the one with the problem."

Elia curtseyed. She was wearing her white dress again; they had all dressed in their best to call on the Chief Physician. Morhault didn't so much mind his neat tunic and breeches, but he missed his sword badly. It was back at the inn, since the cityguard frowned on outsiders bringing weapons into the Garrison.

"A strong solution of agarthin sap in water will rinse out most any hair dye," Beldar advised.

"It's _supposed_ to be this way."

"Good; I was hoping that wasn't the problem. With that color you'd be perfect as Althena in a Festival pageant."

Edric quickly moved on with the introductions.

"The big fellow is Morhault."

"Unfortunate name."

"Only for the last decade," the renegade noted sardonically. "But it does raise a few eyebrows when people hear it."

"Finally, the boy is Tabren."

"He's young," Morhault noted, "so he hasn't earned an introductory joke yet. We're working on it, though."

Beldar snorted, the sound and matching expression remarkably like Edric's.

"Just sit down anywhere. Feel free to move any of that," he added with a wave at the papers filling the hard-backed wooden chairs.

"Move it _where_?" Tabren wondered.

Beldar took his own seat behind his desk.

"The Frontier, if you can arrange it. Now, tell me your story. The four of you make an interesting group."

Since Edric was both the healer and the one who was personally acquainted with the Chief Physician, the others deferred to him. He summed up the story of the attack on Tabren, the fight in the alley, and Elia's unexpected arrival, stopping only to let Morhault and Tabren give their first-hand impressions when necessary.

"And when you woke up, you could remember nothing about yourself or your own past beyond your name," Beldar confirmed with Elia once his former pupil was done.

"That's right, sir. I knew my name, but nothing about my home, my background, my family, my daily life...nothing."

He turned back to Edric.

"No other symptoms, you said?"

"I couldn't find anything physically wrong, and she hasn't mentioned anything."

"Sooo..."

Beldar tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the desk.

"We did learn during the journey that I'm a magician," Elia contributed.

"Oh? That came back to you during the trip?"

"Yes. Well...no, not exactly." She explained about the wet wood and how the fire spell had just popped into her head without her really thinking about or understanding it.

"I see. Well, you were right, Edric; this is an interesting problem."

"Can you help?"

Beldar frowned.

"Frankly, there isn't very much known about amnesia, mostly due to the very few cases available for study. It's a condition that exists more often in stories and songs than in real life. We know that it can be caused either by an injury to the brain or by an emotional shock." He scowled in irritation. "There's another problem; we have no idea how the brain really works, so we don't know what can be done to fix it--and as for intangible things like emotions and personal experiences..." He threw up his hands again, frustrated, then regained his composure.

"Whatever your problem is," he told Elia, "I don't think it's from physical injury. I trust Edric's judgment that there's no evidence of a wound or blow, and that you don't show any recurrent symptoms of concussion or the like. That's definitely good news."

"Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes; without a _physical_ cause, there's always the chance that you may recover." He pressed his hands together. "They've been doing some interesting studies in mental aberration lately at the University of Meribia."

"'Mental aberration'? What does that mean?" wondered Tabren.

"Lunacy," Edric stated flatly.

Elia gasped in shock.

"Lunacy?"

Beldar snorted.

"That was always your biggest flaw, Edric. Oversimplification! A healer is just like an engineer or a magician--precision is absolutely necessary! Don't use quick and easy terms just because you're too lazy or too used to dealing with military knotheads to spell things out clearly!"

Edric winced. Apparently, high rank hadn't worn any of the rough edges off his mentor's tongue.

"You can quit quaking in your boots, young lady," the old man told Elia. "No one's saying that you're going to run around howling at the Blue Star. When I say 'mental aberration,' I mean anything that can interfere with the usual processes of thought. So yes, that includes lunacy, but also things like confronting extreme fears--you might have known people who were exceptionally nervous and panicky in small, enclosed spaces or underground, or who felt the same way about high places?"

"Yes, that does sound familiar."

"Well, that's what I mean--purely emotional conditions that can be a hindrance to people without actually preventing them from living normal lives, just like what's happened to you."

Elia smiled radiantly at the old man. Morhault grinned as Beldar got a distinctively self-conscious look, almost blushing at the beautiful girl's obvious gratitude. There were some things that no amount of aging could change.

"So then," he said, "our next stop ought to be Meribia?"

"I'd say so."

Beldar scratched at his beard.

"There's one other piece of advice I'd give you."

"Oh?"

"I'd certainly consider talking to the Magic Guild at some point. Given the conjuring experience, added to the fact that Elia herself is a magician, the problem might not have anything to do with her mind at all. All the emotional study in Lunar wouldn't do any good if her memories have been magically erased."

"Can that really happen?" Tabren wondered.

Beldar shrugged.

"Althena only knows. I'm just a healer."

"And the only magician here doesn't even remember her own spells," Tabren sighed. "Of course, if Elia _did_ remember, then we wouldn't be asking these questions, so the knowledge wouldn't do any good."

"Have you ever considered becoming a philosopher?" Morhault inquired.

"Don't be petty, Morhault; you can't be the group's jester all the time," advised Edric. Elia gave up her attempts at keeping a straight face and giggled.

"Well, thank you for seeing us, Beldar," Edric finally said, rising.

"Always glad to help an old student get on in the world. Besides which, it's by far the most interesting thing that's happened to me this past week. Keeps an old healer awake to actually be asked to heal someone."

"In that case, we're glad to be of service."

"Do you know anyone specific we should consult at the University?" Morhault asked.

"Not off the top of my head, but...hm, now, where was that?"

Beldar got up and began hunting through his shelves, finally pulling down a green cloth-bound book.

"Here it is. Last year's summary of the studies and results in medicine from the University of Meribia." He paged through the table of contents. "This is it, Professor Lenia Carras. She's the one who's done some of the most revolutionary work in the area."

"Lenia Carras..." mused Morhault, committing it to memory.

"Feel free to use my name, if you run into any pompous twits who would be influenced by it," Beldar added. "Oh, and Edric, do let me know how it turns out. I want to know the end of the story."

"Maybe we could publish a broadsheet," Tabren quipped. His face fell almost at once. "I'm sorry, Elia. I don't mean to be making fun of your problems."

"It's all right. Honestly, it's a lot nicer that way then if you were all on edge and treating me like I was as fragile as spun glass. It makes me feel like a friend instead of, oh, a rare animal on display. 'Come see the girl with no past--admission one silver!'"

She shuddered convulsively; Morhault lightly laid his hand on her shoulder.

"No one thinks that you're any kind of a freak, Elia."

"Besides which," Edric contributed, "in this group, self-pity is exclusively Morhault's job. We can't have you poaching."

"Was he always like this?" the renegade asked Beldar.

"No; he actually seems to be getting better."

"Well, then, I'll keep hoping."

"No one appreciates a smart-mouthed mercenary," Edric told him.

"Thank you for seeing me, Beldar," Elia stepped in.

"As I said, the pleasure was all mine."

They were on their way out when Morhault snapped his fingers, an afterthought having come to mind.

"Oh, that reminds me; there was something that happened last night at the Red Gryphon that I thought I ought to mention to someone. It's probably nothing important, but I figured that I'd tell you and let you decide. It's military, though, not medical."

"Well, this is the Garrison," Beldar allowed, "though the East Nota branch of the cityguard almost runs itself. Go ahead, anyway."

"Hey, how come no one told me about this?" Tabren asked.

"You're being told now," Edric pointed out. "Sorry for the interruption, Morhault."

Morhault nodded.

"Last night, when Edric told the innkeeper to have his letter delivered to you here, at the Garrison," he explained to the Chief Physician, "two men sitting near us were sufficiently intrigued to abandon their dinner half-eaten and slip out. I followed, and overheard them saying how they thought Edric might have been sending for armsmen to arrest them. The one who didn't believe it suggested that they get the letter from the messenger to find out. Even though it was likely just to humor his friend, I didn't like the idea, so I ran them off with a show of steel and a few vague threats."

"What is it with you and rescuing inn-help?" Tabren asked.

"All the beautiful princesses hold out for actual knights to come and save them."

"Did you hear any names or get a look at the men?" Beldar asked.

"No, that's why I didn't bother making a report to the cityguard."

"True; there's not much they could do. They couldn't even set a trap, since the men would never go back to your inn for a second meeting now that they've been spotted."

"That's what I thought. The one with a beard would be too bright and the clean-shaven one too scared. He probably ran straight home, pulled the pillow over his head and wailed 'Fire protect me!' all night, whatever that means. Someone getting involved in an illegal plot ought--" He stopped, realizing that the old man was staring at him.

"Say that again."

"Someone getting involved in--"

"No, no, before that. The phrase you said the scared man would be wailing."

"'Fire protect me'?"

"Why did you use that expression?" Beldar snapped.

"It's what the man squealed when I startled him in the alley. Why?"

The growing scowl on Beldar's face deepened, and his brow furrowed, as if he was weighing some course of action. Then, he got up and stalked to the door, thrust it open, and yelled for his clerk.

"Mallin!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Go get Captain Nathane and bring him here."

"What if he's busy?"

"Don't argue with me; this is urgent. Get going!"

Morhault didn't know what was so important about the phrase, but it was obvious from Beldar's reaction that whatever it was had a major impact. Elia and Tabren looked at one another with worried eyes, afraid that something terribly wrong was happening.

"Beldar, what's--" Edric began to ask his mentor, but the old man cut him off sharply.

"Save your questions. We'll have to go over everything in detail once Nathane gets here, and I don't feel like explaining twice. There's more important business to worry about."


	7. A Vile Light Burning

Captain Nathane proved to be a tall, slender man who gave the impression of whipcord toughness. He wasn't particularly handsome; on some his short, glossy black hair and small moustache could have been dashing, but his sun-weathered face could only seem hard and determined. He wore a simple outfit in Nota's green and gold colors accented by brass-studded leather cuffs on his wrists and a heavy dagger buckled at his waist.

"All right, Beldar; I'm here. What was it that made you drag me all the way across the Garrison?"

"I didn't come to your office because I'm an old man, and climbing up and down these stairs once a day is once too many," he replied with a snort. "Now sit down and listen to this."

Nathane frowned, but he sat. The Chief Physician had a reputation for knowing what he was talking about.

"Tell the Captain what you told me," Beldar ordered Morhault.

The renegade nodded and told his story to Nathane, concluding with the odd phrase the second plotter had used. It drew approximately the same reaction from the hard-eyed Captain as it had from Beldar.

"That was the phrase, 'Fire protect me'? You heard it clearly?"

"Yes. I was no more than ten feet away at the time."

Nathane's frown grew even darker.

"And you're sure he was both surprised and frightened?"

"He'd been scared, definitely. Whatever he'd been up to at the Red Gryphon, he'd clearly been nervous about it to begin with or he wouldn't have panicked at the mere suggestion of the cityguard."

"Why is that important?" Tabren asked.

"When people are afraid, they don't think clearly," Morhault told him. "Add surprise to that and they act purely on reflex--fight or flight, nothing complex, only instinctive or habitual actions. It's a dream situation tactically, but easier to achieve with an individual."

He looked back to the questioner.

"Military intelligence, Captain Nathane?"

Nathane nodded curtly.

"That's right. I'm the chief officer of Notan military intelligence."

"I thought it might be something like that. You had that unmistakable air of interrogation about you."

The Captain scowled but said nothing.

"Now," Morhault declared, resting his hands on his knees as he leaned forward, "I think we're done with the part where I answer your questions, and have reached the time where you tell us what I've managed to drag my friends and myself into." Patience was all well and good, but there was a point where mysteries stopped being amusing. That point came very quickly for Morhault, who'd long ago had his fill of employers who held back information on a "need to know" basis which it turned out that he actually needed to know.

"When a man is in trouble, he calls upon the Goddess," Nathane explained, "whether to Althena herself or in some local oath, like how Vane magicians swear 'By the elements!' Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes."

"But ultimately, these local oaths just celebrate parts of Althena's creation that happen to be significant to a culture. Reverently or irreverently, these oaths are just prayers...in a way."

"That sounds a little religious for a career soldier, but I can see your point."

"So what would you think of someone who prays to someone _other_ than Althena in his moment of need?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"_Everyone_ worships Althena, Captain Nathane," Tabren was the first to speak.

"Not everyone," Edric corrected him. "Heresy crops up now and again, philosophers who reject religion, cults that make up their own gods to give them an excuse to exist, even groups that turn ritualized black magic into demon worship. I still don't see why it's a military problem, though. The practices range from stupid to repugnant, but even if they were involved in something disgusting like human sacrifice it would be a criminal matter. The chief spy doesn't investigate that."

Nathane scowled again; it seemed to be one of the man's defining expressions.

"This isn't a case of some debauched merchants using a demon cult as an excuse to hold orgies. Over the past couple of years, there's been a steady increase in the activities of the Burning Hand in the east, both in the Madoria Plains and the Stadius Zone. 'Fire protect me' is one of their standard oaths."

Edric whistled in surprise.

"What's the Burning Hand?" Tabren asked. "Why are they so important?"

"You've never heard of them?" Nathane asked.

Tabren shook his head.

"What do you know about the Vile Tribe, Tabren?" Morhault asked, and had the storyteller's satisfaction of seeing his audience jump in his seat. "Outcasts who rebelled against Althena and were confined to the barren Frontier for their crimes. Three hundred years ago, they rebelled again. We talked about that on the trip up here, remember, when we discussed the history of the Madoria Plains and Nota?"

Tabren nodded.

"But I thought Dragonmaster Alex destroyed the Vile Tribe when he defeated the Magic Emperor?"

Elia shook her head. It was surprising that the amnesiac girl would contribute to the explanation, but then again, her memory loss seemed confined to personal matters, not general knowledge, and as a magician she probably had received an excellent education.

"The leaders and champions, yes, but no one hero could wipe out an entire race. Many Viles retreated from the battlefield alive."

"There's some debate over what happened next," Morhault continued, "but at least _some_ of the survivors took away a renewed grudge against Althena and a desire for vengeance. The Burning Hand is the cult of the Vile Tribe. They are an organized group dedicated to overthrowing Althena's world and dominating all of Lunar politically, culturally, and religiously."

"Heretical worship usually takes the form of individual bands," the Chief Physician added. "Small groups of people so unsatisfied with what they can get out of this life that they turn to divergent cults for wealth, power, pleasure, or a twisted love."

Edric snorted.

"That's a brilliant reason to make your soul the slave of evil."

"Corruption and logic rarely walk hand-in-hand," Morhault noted.

"At worst," Beldar continued, "the cults are a temporary nuisance as they commit crimes in the name of their masters; at best they give the foolish and venal something to amuse themselves without annoying the rest of us. The Burning Hand is a different matter altogether."

"That's likely because of the Vile Tribe at their heart. The human and beastman followers are mostly the usual cultist types, but the Burning Hand gets a continual driving force and purpose from the Viles, who have their own agenda. They've never been all that big, and often have had to go completely into hiding to prevent their destruction, but have also been able to carry out a number of violent attacks on Lunar's society. They collapsed that ridgeline in the Nanza Barrier a hundred and fifty years ago, for example, that ended up cutting Vane off from the eastern land route. Some blame them for touching off the Saith-Meribia war, and they were definitely responsible for assassinating High Priestess Rylera sixty years ago. You can see why nearly every government--even _Reza's_--considers the Burning Hand a criminal society in which membership is a crime in and of itself. In the Prairie they'll hang Hand members outright, even without evidence they'd been involved in other, actual criminal acts beyond just membership. They're even a kind of bogeyman sometimes. You know, 'finish your chores or the Burning Hand will get you.'"

"Bogeyman or no," Nathane said, "they've been stepping up their activities of late. A number of pirates and bandit gangs have been working for them."

Morhault grimaced.

"They're direct thinkers when it comes to money. They need silver, so they take it by force."

"Why would anyone follow them?" Elia asked. "Those bandits and pirates can't all be members, can they?"

"No, they're not members," Nathane told her. "Some didn't know who was backing them, but for the most part it's a case of people not caring where their money is coming from. Too many people are like that, willing to serve any master so long as they benefit."

Elia frowned, thinking that over.

"It's a problem the priests of Althena have been grappling with forever," Edric noted, "and if it's all the same I'd like to leave the theology to those who are trained for it."

The Captain nodded curtly.

"My sentiments exactly. My job is to stop the Burning Hand, not to wonder about the whys and wherefores."

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"What is it?" Beldar roared.

The door swung open.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I was told Captain Nathane was here."

The newcomer was a woman. She wore a white shirt with loose sleeves gathered at lace-edged wrists, black breeches and boots, and a black leather waistcoat traced through with gold embroidery. A slender rapier, a long, light sword developed in Meribia for use mostly between unarmored opponents, hung at her waist. A lightweight gray cloak fell from her shoulders, secured by a silver clasp. Black curls framed her face and just brushed her shoulders, and her eyes were a warm, rich brown. Lightly tanned skin indicated that she spent time outdoors regularly, while her lithe, catlike build suggested that the sword was for more than just show. Her face didn't rival Elia's for beauty, but it have a liveliness that made it very appealing despite not having such a perfectly sculpted appearance.

"I'm here," Nathane verified the obvious, "and from the way this conversation had been going, it's good you came looking for me."

The newcomer's face quickly changed from lighthearted to intent.

"New information about the Burning Hand?"

"Right."

Morhault was still at a loss as to how what he had seen and heard could have been so important. Certainly, it verified that Vile Tribe cultists were at work in Nota, but from Nathane's manner that wasn't a surprise to anyone.

"You'd better fill me in, then." To the others she said, "I'm Jyrian, by the way."

"Master Jyrian of the Magic Guild of Vane," Nathane clarified, "who is providing us with assistance, both magically and with fieldwork."

Morhault and Edric were both startled by the name, but Tabren looked completely poleaxed, eyes wide in amazement.

"You don't mean you're..._Jyrian Mageborn_?" he breathed reverently.

Jyrian blushed.

"Well, sort of. Those silly songs are about me, if that's what you mean, but they aren't too accurate. I mean, I'm not the demigod they make me out to be. Every minstrel I've ever met had a chronic problem with the truth."

Edric smiled.

"There you have it, Morhault, someone else with the same attitude about singers."

Inwardly, Morhault winced. Jyrian Mageborn was a true heroine, no matter how overblown the stories about her were. She lived the life of a wandering adventurer, sometimes at the behest of the Guild and other times seeking out evil to confront on her own. Comparing himself to her made him feel inadequate; in spite of his belief that he'd made the correct choice in the past, all his doubts, all his questions came back to him in a painful rush.

"Morhault..." Jyrian mused. "Unfortunate name given the--wait a minute. That face...you really _are_ the one they call Morhault the Fallen, aren't you?"

He nodded slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable. The expected scorn didn't come, though, at least not from her. It was Captain Nathane's face that tightened into a mask of suspicion and distaste.

"The renegade Lion Knight," he snarled. "The man who singlehandedly managed to wreck the Tamur-Prairie peace settlement ten years ago and plunge the Stadius Zone into a three-year war."

Elia gasped. Apparently without memories, the connection between Morhault's name and history hadn't come to her, or else she just hadn't known it.

"So now you come here, purporting to bring information about the Burning Hand. That war did the Pyre Lord no end of good down south, so now you continue their work here by spreading misinformation, is that the way it is?"

Over the years Morhault had learned to put up with the inevitable insults from people who believed one or more of the popular versions of his story, and occasionally those who knew his real reasons but completely disagreed. The taunts that had stung painfully in that first awful year gradually started to bounce off a hard shell. This time, though, he lost his temper at once. He had been accused of wrongheaded stupidity, of arrogance, of greedy intriguing, and even sheer bloody-minded villainy, but never, not once, had he been accused of being a Vile Tribe follower, sent out to cause trouble on their behalf.

"Would you care to repeat that, Nathane?" he said in a quiet, deadly voice. His hand began to reach up reflexively before he remembered that he wasn't wearing his sword.

"Do you really think that the Lion Knights would have allowed one of the Burning Hand into their ranks?" Jyrian asked, apparently none too pleased with what passed for the Captain's reasoning.

"All right, so saying he's a member might--_might_--be going too far, but it wouldn't be the first time an unscrupulous person would have taken their gold." He fixed Morhault with an iron gaze. "I'd say that a mercenary--a paid killer--who was also a known oathbreaker would be just the type they'd want."

Tabren leapt from his chair.

"You dirty swine! Morhault saved my life just a week ago, and put himself at risk to do it! He volunteered to help Elia get her memory back and isn't even asking for money! You've known him less than an hour and you're calling him all sorts of rotten things just because of a bunch of stupid _songs_!"

Morhault blinked, taken aback by the boy's fierce defense.

"Tabren's right," Elia agreed with no less emotion. "Morhault is kind and honest and decent, and you have no call to be accusing him without reason."

"You really ought to know better," Jyrian added. "I'm sure your spies learned what actually happened; the consequences were too important for Nota to have missed any details. Morhault broke his oaths of knighthood, yes, but because of a crisis of conscience, wrongheaded as it might have been. If the Lion Knights had believed for an instant there was more to it, whether for gain or something worse, they wouldn't have just stripped him of his shield and cast him out."

Nathane ground his teeth together.

"When following your 'conscience' means betraying months of hard work by your friends and allies and sending thousands of people to their deaths in a war that didn't have to happen, then it isn't a matter of personal judgment any more. It's _wrong_, plain and simple. But," he grudgingly admitted, "Jyrian is right. I can't see even _your_ warped version of morality helping the Burning Hand, so I'll believe you told the truth."

"Thanks ever so."

"Told the truth about what?" Jyrian asked. "As the latecomer here, I seemed to have missed the good parts."

"I'll explain," Nathane told her, rising. "Beldar, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Miss," he added with a polite nod to Elia, "I wish you Althena's fortune in solving your troubles."

He beckoned to the adventuress.

"Come on, Jyrian; we have a lot to talk about."

With that he left the room, the raven-haired magician following.

"I have no idea what just happened here," Tabren complained. "He comes, he goes, he invites her to stay, he tells her to leave with him. This doesn't make any sense!"

Morhault sighed heavily.

"Actually, it's fairly obvious." A glance at the others' expressions revealed that, predictably, Edric and his mentor had followed his line of thought while Elia's bright blue eyes held much the same confusion as Tabren's. Morhault supposed it all came down to age.

"Nathane is the Notan cityguard's chief spy," he explained. "That puts more information at his fingertips than nearly anyone in eastern Lunar. With everything he knows, the little bit I told him must have meant something. So, he thought of some kind of plan that probably needed my or our help as witnesses or something along those lines. But, and this is the fun part, when he realized who I was, he decided that he'd rather have nothing to do with me, so he left." Morhault opened his hands. "See how easy it is?"

"But that isn't fair!" Tabren protested. This exclamation drew almost identical expressions of disgust from the two healers.

"Tabren," Edric told him, "if there's anything at all you remember from this trip, remember that life isn't always fair."

"Which doesn't mean that it's always _not_ fair," Morhault added sympathetically, "or that you shouldn't try to make things turn out justly. Only, don't get in the habit of expecting things to work out in the end because you think they _ought_ to. Happy endings don't just happen; you have to work for them, and even then you might run up against someone who worked even harder for theirs."

He turned to the elderly physician.

"Thank you again for your advice, Beldar. We're all grateful that someone in your position would consent to see us."

"Yes, very much so," agreed Elia.

The Chief Physician grinned.

"Oh, no trouble at all. Just tell me where I can send my large bill," he joked.

"Well, since only one of us has a permanent address...right, Edric?" Tabren suggested, grinning back. Edric groaned.

"Boy, you're growing entirely too fond of your own wit."

"I've fallen in with bad companions."


	8. Morhault's Fall

It was barely past noon when the four companions returned to the Red Gryphon. All agreed that there was little point in staying much longer in Nota.

"After all, the best clue we have to helping Elia is to go to Meribia and look up Lenia Carras," Morhault pointed out. "If she can't help, then there are other professors, and it's only a short hop to Vane from there. We might not even _need_ to go to Vane; Black Rose Street has the greatest concentration of magicians outside the Magic City and maintains strong ties to the Guild."

"That's true," Edric agreed.

Elia and Tabren had been talking together quietly for much of the walk back from the Garrison, and now Elia stepped forward, looking nervous.

"Morhault," she said, "I know it isn't really my place to ask, but it's obvious from what Nathane and Jyrian said that you have a bad reputation because of something you did in the past. Tabren says there are even songs about you calling you 'Morhault the Fallen' like Jyrian did, but if I've ever heard them I don't remember, and they're all he knows. So, we were hoping that you'd tell us the truth of this Stadius Zone war. I know we don't have the right--" She broke off, blushing faintly.

"No," Morhault replied, shaking his head. "After the way the two of you jumped to my defense, you _do_ have the right to ask what you were defending."

He glanced from the inn foyer into the dining room, which was crowded with patrons eating lunch.

"If you don't mind, though, I'd prefer to do it upstairs. It's a very personal story, and I'd like to limit the audience."

They went up to the large room shared by the three males. Tabren flopped irreverently on one of the beds, while Elia and Edric seated themselves at the small table. Morhault didn't sit, but leaned against the wall next to the room's one window, which put the left side of his face in shadow.

"How much do you know about Stadius Zone politics?" It wasn't a classic like "Once upon a time," but it got the ball rolling.

"The south-central portion is controlled by the Prairie Tribe; it's largely open grassland. The west and north strips have a number of towns, of which Lyton is the most important," Edric answered. "Trade runs north to Nota, as well as off the west coast by sea around the south end of the Marius Zone, or by land west through Meryod. Tamur Pass links the eastern and western sections of the arable land, and also is the only functional route through the mountains to the Prairie, which makes it a major trade bottleneck."

"Right. They say that centuries ago, Lyton and Tamur were only small towns and nothing else was more than a village, but since the Madoria Plains are now settled land instead of being part of the barren Frontier, more and more trade is flowing through the Stadius Zone and it's become the thriving area it is today." Morhault paused, then added, "Pardon the digression, but in terms of their effect on Lunar today, the Madoria Plains are probably the most important part of the world. Their existence drives most of the economic and political change of the past three centuries."

"Yay, us," said Tabren.

"First math and now history," was Edric's take. "You really did have quite the education, Morhault."

"Hush," Elia told them. "I want to hear everything."

Morhault folded his arms across his chest.

"As you might guess, Tamur is kind of a stress point for the Stadius Zone. It's the only viable way for the Prairie Tribe to sell their goods, and the only way for them to import anything from outside. Well, twelve years ago was a _very_ bad year for the Prairie. I won't go so far as to say 'famine,' but things weren't pretty, and they needed support badly. The problem was, the Prairie Tribe couldn't produce its normal trade goods because of the drought, and so couldn't pay their debts. Much of that wasn't a problem--it's called _charity_ for a reason, after all, and many Stadius Zone residents were more than happy to help. The problem was that Tamur is so rooted in trade, it started to suffer from the backflow, and then Notan and Meribian merchant interests got into the act. The long and short of it is, within ten years the Prairie Tribe and an alliance led by Tamur were at each other's throats." He glanced at Edric. "Have you ever seen a Prairie warrior's reaction to someone who won't pay an honor-debt?"

Edric winced.

"I see you have."

"So how did the Lion Knights get involved?" Tabren asked.

"The two sides wanted to avert an all-out war, but neither was willing to back down from their position for a variety of reasons. They called in the Lion Knights as an outside faction to mediate."

"Why them?" asked Elia.

"They could be trusted to be completely disinterested," Morhault said. "As an independent order of knights, they have no economic interests at all, and being based in the Marius Zone no political interest in the outcome. Likewise, they have a reputation for upholding the ideals of justice, loyalty, and truth across Lunar. They lend their troops to military campaigns when innocent people are menaced by bandits, warlords, or the occasional goblin horde, and individual Lion Knights ride the countryside performing deeds of knight-errantry."

"You speak well of them, even though you turned against them?" Elia asked.

Morhault shrugged.

"I'm trying to get the story right. And it's true, there's a lot that I admire about the Lion Knights even now. The order recognized that Lunar needed heroes, without a Dragonmaster, and they hope that as an organized group working together they can fill the shoes of that one extraordinary person. They do a lot of good."

"But not this time?"

Morhault sighed.

"With the Knights acting as the voice of reason and general moral authority, a settlement was reached. The details of future trade obligations, reparations for past actions, the status of existing trade contracts, military authority within Tamur Pass, and all those details were finally hammered out. The centerpiece of the agreement as a show of good faith and a symbolic association was that the daughter of the Mayor of Tamur would marry the son of the chief of the Prairie Tribe, to unite the two sides as kin."

"That sounds like a good plan," said Tabren. "It's a lot harder to go to war with the father of your grandchildren or something like that."

Morhault nodded.

"Especially with a family-based people like the Prairie Tribe. It would have prevented a bloody war and laid the groundwork for peaceful resolution of future disputes."

"But...you were the cause of it coming to naught?" Elia asked.

Another slow nod.

"My duty was to lead Marysann's escort from Tamur to Pao, where the ceremony was to take place. An escort was needed, too, because the Forest of Illusion lies between Tamur and the Prairie. On the way through, we were attacked by a large band."

"That's it?" Tabren said, confused. "You failed to protect the lady and that's made you some kind of storybook villain?"

"No, that might have meant disgrace and shame, but hardly the kind of reputation I've gotten. In fact, my soldiers and I defeated the attackers and captured the leader. That's when the trouble started."

"So far, this isn't too off from the version I heard," Edric said.

"We had thought the attack was ordered by one or more of the parties opposing the settlement--foreign merchant factions who didn't want an economic link formed in the south, Prairie family heads with blood in their eye, Tamurites who'd lost loved ones in Prairie raids, the lost goes on. As it turned out, though, Marysann was in love and the leader of the attackers was her would-be fiance."

"Did the Lion Knights know about this?"

"I doubt it. Marysann's father had more or less heaved him out of Tamur when the topic of 'alliance-marriage' came up. The boy had gathered up a band of his friends and the cheapest paid fighters he could find in a last, desperate attempt to free the lady so they could elope together."

Edric snorted.

"More heart than wit. Typical of the young."

Morhault didn't quite flinch, but it was close enough for Elia to notice and smile.

"Marysann wanted to go with him, didn't she?"

"That's right. She and Tarrent were in love. It was her parents who pushed her into the marriage. Words like 'duty,' 'honor,' and 'the good of Tamur' were tossed around liberally."

"So you let the two of them run off together," Edric groaned.

"And before the Knights could even finish trying me for violating my oaths of knighthood, Tamur and the Prairie were at war. It took them nearly three years to stop killing people, and instead of a fair peace agreed upon by compromise, the terms were extorted at swordpoint and therefore resented. To most people's way of thinking, it was my fault."

Edric frowned thoughtfully.

"I don't like that. It sounds wrong, somehow."

"That's what I thought at the time. I didn't see why a young couple's happiness should be sacrificed for politics. I thought that if the two sides really _wanted_ peace then they wouldn't fight, and if they _didn't_ want peace then who was I to stop them?"

He sighed.

"Does that excuse me from the consequences of my actions?" he asked. "I thought that the immediate good of two people was better than the hypothetical future good of many. But when you get down to it, _I_ was the last person in the whole of the Stadius Zone that mattered whose head wasn't clouded by love, hurt pride, distrust, or vengeance. And do you know what's worst of all? What _really_ bothers me at two in the morning on some nights?"

He struck his fist against the wall.

"I don't even know what happened! For all I know, I stepped aside and let thousands die for the sake of a momentary infatuation between two romance-minded teenagers."

"You don't believe that," Edric said.

Morhault raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"You may be afraid it's true, but you still think you made the right choice. You'd have eaten yourself alive by now if you didn't. The kind of man who's done what he has for Tabren and Elia couldn't live with himself otherwise."

"If it's any use, I agree with you," Elia said. "What kind of lasting peace could come from a forced marriage?"

From the look on Tabren's face it was clear that he, too, supported Morhault's choice. The renegade noted, though, that despite his kind words, Edric had _not_ joined in that agreement. The healer might have approved of Morhault's general character, but not of his specific action. Well, it was hardly an uncommon view. Even those who agreed with Morhault in general principle often thought his sworn oaths to the Knights should have taken precedence.

When you came down to it, he realized with some surprise, this was the first time in ten years where his past was the topic of conversation and not only was the prevailing view that he'd been _right_--astonishing in and of itself--but that no one was accusing him of villainy. Likewise, every one of them seemed to believe that his account was accurate; no one was trying to look for hidden agendas or secret plots. He couldn't remember the last time when he'd been out-and-out accepted in any company.

He smiled wryly.

"It seems I am among rare friends."

Edric returned the smile.

"An ex-army man who spends his time healing, a boy out to live his dreams of adventure, and a magician without her past. I'd call that rare."

"I'd say it's one step from being a carnival act," Tabren said with an amused grin.


	9. Night of Blades

Morhault glanced out the window, realizing that the sun was lower in the sky than he'd expected. The telling of his tale had been longer than he'd thought. The scents of the Forest of Illusion seemed to linger in the room, as did the echo of steel on steel and the faces of the two lovers he'd chosen to trust when most people would--and had--considered it foolish, short-sighted, or out-and-out dishonorable.

Those faces stayed with him even now, ten years later, but he had a feeling the faces he was with now might stay for as long. This kind of camaraderie was simply too rare a thing in his life. Even now, he realized, some of it was likely reaching its end.

"It seems we've wasted a bit too much time listening to me ramble on about my past," he said. "There's not much point in setting off west now, not when we can enjoy another night's good food and shelter at a cost of only a few hours' walk." He turned back to the others. "Which brings me to another point. Well-suited we may be, but are all four of us going to go on together?" Morhault said it to everyone, but it was really Edric he was thinking of.

"Well, of course we are," Tabren said at once. "I mean, why wouldn't we?" He looked around at the others.

"I think he means Edric," Elia said, and the healer nodded his agreement.

"Yes; I'd be the one he'd be most concerned with, and he's right."

"You're not coming with us? Why?" Tabren exclaimed.

Edric sighed deeply.

"Look at the three of you. Elia, you're the reason for this trip to Meribia, and beyond that you don't know if you have a home to return to or where it is. I'm sorry for speaking so bluntly, but there it is."

"I know, Edric; it's all right. You're pointing out that I have no reason to do anything other than press on."

"Morhault, well, he's a traveling mercenary. His home is wherever he happens to be at the time. You, Tabren, have a home, but like you told your aunt, you're young and it's time you started making your own place in the world. Meribia is as good as Kyre or Nota for that, and at your age you're free to go questing for the sake of a friend, or for the sheer adventure of it all."

Elia smiled shyly.

"It's a bit like an old ballad, isn't it? A maiden in distress, with a skilled soldier and a brave young man leaping to my defense. I'm almost embarrassed."

"Just don't expect me to duel Tabren for your favors," Morhault said sardonically. "I'm not prepared to assume the role quite _that_ closely."

Elia blushed.

"As for me, though," Edric continued, "I came this far to introduce you to Beldar, and to make sure that no other ill effects happened during the journey here. I'd not be much use as a healer if I'd told you to go on a week-long trip only to have you keel over on the third day."

"I've known plenty who would have done exactly that and not thought twice about the possible consequences," Morhault told him. "Don't sell yourself short."

Edric shrugged off the compliment.

"That's to their shame, not to my credit. In any case, though, it's a lot longer from here to Meribia than it is from Kyre to here. You'll have to head west through the Nanza Barrier to Nanza, then take a boat across the bay. You're a pleasant young lady, Elia, and I confess that I really want to know how your story turns out, but I have a home, a life in Kyre, and a number of other patients to think of. I can't go and take the better part of a season away from that, not unless I was ready to leave it permanently. And you don't actually need me along. Physically you're hale and hearty enough--completely healthy, in fact--and I don't have any special contacts in Meribia."

"Which doesn't make it any easier to leave, does it?" Morhault asked softly.

Elia reached out and lightly touched the back of Edric's hand.

"I don't blame you, if that's what worries you," she told him. "It would be selfish of us to demand that you abandon your responsibilities just because we enjoy your company."

He smiled at her.

"The truth is, it's the other way around. I'm as eager as these two are to learn what your story is, and I want to see you well at the end of it all. Part of me wishes I was as free as Morhault or Tabren to see this through to the conclusion. Only, I'm not. I can't even make the point arguable like Morhault did with his big moment because I'm not weighing the good of others against my responsibilities, but only my selfish whims. It makes an old man feel young again, you know, but I also know that feeling won't last over the long term, not balanced against home and the people I'd be leaving behind."

"We understand, Edric," Morhault told him, then grinned. "Besides, you spent enough time in the infantry when you were young to get your fill of hiking all over Lunar."

"As opposed to a certain cavalryman who seems to see it as a chance to stretch his legs."

Chuckling, Tabren said, "Now, _that's_ something I'm going to miss. You're the only one of us who can score points off Morhault."

Considering that they'd known each other only a week, Edric's imminent departure had a surprisingly strong impact on the four travelers. Morhault thought it could have been the odd circumstances of their meeting that had drawn them together, but then again sometimes people just had an instant affinity for one another, whether as lifelong friends or love at first sight. Whatever the reason, it made for subdued conversation the rest of the day, followed by an early night.

The room shared by the men had only two beds, so the result of a coin flip had left Morhault on the floor, stretched out on his bedroll beneath the window while the others had nice, soft mattresses. It was still better than on the road from Kyre, though, thanks to being in a nice, dry room instead of out in the rain with only a tent between him and the wet ground below and the steady drizzle above. It took very little time before he drifted off to sleep.

Morhault's sleep was disturbed, though. It seemed like only a moment had passed since he'd dozed off, but it must have been hours for only darkness and silence filled the air. The diners in the common room below were finished and the lights from Nota's homes had been extinguished. Yet something had awakened him. He was naturally a light sleeper, and had built on that tendency with years of sleeping in dangerous situations, whether in the wilderness or during an ongoing campaign. His instincts were screaming, _danger, wake up_.

Then he heard the sound again, this time with waking ears. It was the rasp of a knife blade working at the window latch, prying it open. The catch slipped, and the window swung into the room. Looking up, Morhault saw the form of a man perched on the sill, silhouetted against the shining light of the Blue Star.

Moving slowly and stealthily, the man stepped out to enter the room. His foot came straight down towards Morhault; if the fallen knight hadn't already been awake being stepped on certainly would have done the trick. Since he really didn't feel like a career as a floor rug, he reached up and pulled the intruder past him, sending the man face-first into the floor. From outside cane the sound of muffled curses.

"What does that idiot think he's doing? He'll wake up the whole inn!"

In fact, the crash had awakened Tabren and Edric, who groggily began coming to. Morhault worked his way free of his bedroll while the intruder regained his feet, his knife glinting brightly in the darkness.

"Uh...whass goin' on?" murmured Tabren, his voice slurred by sleep.

The intruder feinted towards Morhault, making him step back. The renegade's sword was slung over Edric's bedpost, only a few feet away, and he lunged for it just as the shadowy figure made a real strike at him. Morhault was forced to turn away from the sword to block the knife, deflecting the man's forearm with his own. By then, Edric was awake and had grabbed up his staff, but the darkened conditions made it difficult for him to determine quite what was going on. Another intruder had gained the window, making things even worse.

"There's a fight going on in here," snarled the newcomer.

"Get in there and help!" a woman's voice called back from the alley.

Morhault got hold of the first man's tunic and threw him across the room, then grabbed the second man's arm while he was still trying to get his bearings and pulled him in as well. The intruder grunted as he hit the solid wooden floor.

A spark flared up as Edric got his bedside candle going. By its light Morhault could finally get a look at things. With their rough, dirty clothes and unwashed bodies, the burglars reminded him of the thugs working for Krasek in Kyre. These weren't fighters, though; they wielded only knives and their bodies were thinner, more wiry. Thieves, in all probability.

"Tabren, get next door and see if Elia's all right," Morhault ordered. The boy snatched up his shortsword and dashed past the two sprawled thieves out the door. As the intruders regained their feet, Morhault finally got his own sword drawn. The comfortable feel of its leather-wrapped hilt in his hand lent him confidence.

"From the look of you, gentlemen, you have this kind of problem often," he told them, taking up a two-handed grip since he did not have on his gauntlet. "Why don't you drop those knives and start working on the running away part?"

"Shut up, you worthless dog," one snarled.

"Don't talk; just kill him," snapped the other.

A high-pitched scream from the next room cut into Morhault's confidence. He hoped it was just Elia's reaction to Tabren's bursting into her room, but he doubted it.

One of the thieves launched himself at Morhault. It was a crude attempt, and the renegade fended it off by raising his foot and slamming his boot into the thief's chest, kicking him down. The second man advanced more cautiously, feinting in the hope of making Morhault overextend so he could get in close. Meanwhile, Edric cracked his staff loudly against the downed thief's skull, making sure he'd _stay_ down.

Morhault made a feint of his own, making it seem as if he had presented an opening for his opponent, the slashed when the thief lunged. The corpse fell, and Morhault was already racing next door by the time it hit.

He had been right; Elia was in trouble. Tabren was engaged in a desperate fight with another of the intruders, a fight that had carried out into the hall. Inside the room, Elia was struggling for her life, her hands wrapped around the wrists of a fourth intruder who was using his greater size and strength to force his blade towards her throat. She was chanting softly, though, and an instant later flame erupted between her fingers and the smell of seared flesh filled the air. Howling in pain, the thief spun away from her, his wrists blackened and charred by the magical fire. His decision made for him, Morhault moved to assist Tabren, swiftly dealing with the thief. With that done, he ran to Elia's open window and looked out. A rope was hooked to the sill, and a man and a woman were standing below in the alley.

"It's gone bad," the woman said, seeing the sword in Morhault's hand. "Run for it, Pel!"

The two of them bolted; Morhault swung out the window and swiftly lowered himself to the ground by the thieves' rope. He was after them an instant later, but although the gutter rats might have been poor burglars and worse fighters they were quite good at running. Suddenly, though, the form of another woman stepped out to block the mouth of the alley. With a gesture and a phrase, a shower of icy crystals filled the air, bursting when they struck the thieves and releasing waves of bitter cold into the air. Both collapsed at once.

"Well," Jyrian said, surveying her work, "it seems as if I still know how to make an entrance."


	10. Motivations

"You like to do things your way, don't you?" Morhault commented, surveying the trussed-up thieves. Jyrian had neatly taken command of the situation, placating the innkeeper and helping Morhault bring the two stunned burglars inside so they could be tied with their own rope while the dead ones had been unceremoniously dumped in the alley until the cityguard could be summoned to dispose of them properly.

"I'm surprised you of all people would complain about that."

"Shouldn't we be calling the cityguard?" Tabren asked. "These people tried to kill us!" Like the rest of the travelers the boy was up and dressed now; smallclothes and leggings were fine for sleeping, but an interrogation really required something more formal. Once the actual combat was over, he'd been the most embarrassed of the four; Morhault and Edric were old campaigners, used to a little loss of dignity in the face of the practical, and Elia had been nearly as calm about it without any trace of "fine lady" hysterics.

Curious, that. Morhault filed it away for future consideration.

The remaining conscious thief yelped as Edric applied ointment to his burnt wrists.

"Oh, calm down. You aren't hurt _that_ badly. You're lucky your clothes didn't catch fire, given the heat it took to do this damage."

"That's fairly normal for magic," Jyrian said. "Spells that conjure up fire, lightning, or the like to do damage rarely have any incidental effects on the environment."

"I don't understand," Tabren declared without shame.

"Casting a spell translates the intent of the caster into the real world by shaping the power of magic. The flaming touch spell is designed to do one thing, to injure an enemy that the magician is touching. Right, Elia?"

"That's right," confirmed the blue-haired girl.

"Setting something on fire to let it burn naturally would have been a different intent, and so a different spell."

"Oh, like when Elia lit the campfire?"

"Yes, that was different," Elia told him.

"You wouldn't believe how much the Magic Guild saves on repair bills because of that attribute of spellcasting," Jyrian said. "Otherwise, the apprentices would burn down the city every year while practicing fire magic."

"Okay, that makes sense...sort of."

Chuckling, Morhault said, "Face it, Tabren, magic just has its own rules that are different from the ones the rest of the world follows. That's why magicians are so confusing--they're used to a completely different logic than the rest of us."

"You're so kind," Jyrian murmured. "Oh, and to answer your original question, no, I don't think we need the cityguard just yet."

"Why not?" Elia asked.

"Because if I'm not mistaken, these fine gentlemen and lady will be able to lead us to the local headquarters of the Burning Hand."

_Things,_ Morhault reflected, _are beginning to make sense._

"You were expecting this," he said. "That's why you're here. Does Nathane know?"

Jyrian shook her head.

"No. He doesn't trust you, Morhault, not even a little bit. He might not believe you'd bend your knee to the Pyre Lord, but he's certain you'd be happy enough to take its silver."

"I really wish I had half of the money I've been accused of taking over the years."

"It was the men from last night, wasn't it?" Edric asked. "They thought we might have seen their faces, perhaps even overheard their conversation, and wanted us silenced."

"That's what we thought," Jyrian said.

"So that's it," Morhault put the pieces together. "Captain Nathane had us stick around because he saw this coming and was going to ask us to be bait for his trap, to catch the assassins when they came for us. Then, when he learned who I was, he probably decided I was spreading false information to lure his spies into a reverse trap, so he just let us walk out."

"Without having the courtesy to even mention that our lives could be in danger," Edric growled. "I think I need to have a long talk with Captain Nathane."

"You believed us, though?" Elia asked the other woman.

Jyrian nodded. "The Magic Guild archives have the more or less unadulterated story of Morhault's fall, and I have a kind of hobby of reading up on the history of legends--probably because I have my own gripes with minstrels. There's a big difference between a man who breaks an oath out of a crisis of conscience and one who breaks it for gain."

"You're presuming that I haven't become embittered and corrupted over the past ten years."

The magician gave him a look of distaste. "Chief Physician Beldar told me the whole story about how you found Elia, so you can peddle that hard-bitten mercenary act somewhere else."

Edric grinned. "She's got you dead to rights, kid."

"So," Jyrian finished her explanation," I got away from the Garrison as soon as I could in the hope of carrying out Nathane's trap or at least warning you. I was too late to keep them out of your rooms, but I'm glad to see you're all right."

"They were clumsy," Morhault said.

"Well, no one said we were going to be fighting swordsmen and magicians now, did they?" complained the burned killer.

"Assassins who can't fight well enough to kill waking people and can't sneak well enough to catch their victims asleep aren't going to have long careers in any event," Morhault noted dryly. The thief shot him a nasty look, which didn't unduly concern him. "Actually, Jyrian, your timing wasn't half bad. You got here just at the right moment to catch the last two before they escaped, and that's especially good because I think the woman there is the leader."

"As it should be," Jyrian said with a smile.

"So," Edric said, "are we going to go through with Nathane's idea?"

"We've made a success of it so far, so why not press on?"

"Why not indeed? How's that guy's wrists doing?" Morhault asked.

"Badly. Unless he sees a priest to magic away the whole thing or finds some powerful healing reagent like a Dover Nut, the pain is going to be unpleasant for a long time and he'll need a healer's care to keep out infection. I applied unguent of frostlily to numb the pain for eight hours or so, and used a healing charm to prevent infection for a couple of days."

"Don't think of it as a nasty wound," Morhault advised the thief. "Think of it as getting a hundred silver's worth of free treatment from a first-class healer." For some reason the injured man didn't appear consoled.

Ignoring the interruption, Edric said, "If what you're really asking is, am I done with him, then the answer's yes."

Jyrian rubbed her hands together.

"Good; let's get him tied up and we can get on with this."

There was a predictable amount of squealing and thrashing as the gutter rat attempted to get away, but Morhault and Edric managed to truss him with a minimum of fuss. With that done, they brought the other three around with the traditional water-in-the-face method. Groaning and sputtering, they slowly regained their senses. Once they were awake enough to be aware of more than their throbbing skulls, Jyrian walked over in front of them.

"So, you're the lucky survivors," she began, surveying them thoughtfully.

The two that she'd caught in the alley glanced around, noting the missing one-third of their band.

"You've done for Wat and Hule," the woman said, scowling.

"We didn't have time for introductions," Morhault noted. He was interested to see how Jyrian handled the interrogation. In his experience, more of a person's character was revealed when they had power over another than at any other time.

"So where's the guard?" the female thief asked. "Ain't they ought to be here by now?"

"We haven't called them," Jyrian stated. "We have some private business to discuss with you first. You've certainly managed to land yourself in the stew this time. It may not have been the least successful murder attempt in Lunar's history, but I wouldn't mention it as a reference to your next employer--presuming that you have a next employer."

"Do they hang people for attempted murder in Nota?" Morhault asked Edric.

"No; I think the penalty is ten years or so at hard labor. Those pretty roads you like so much don't appear by magic."

"So, unlike stupidity, incompetence _is_ a defense at law."

"It's their membership in the Burning Hand that will get them hanged," Jyrian told him.

A thief's face twisted in a mixture of confusion, fear, and anger.

"The Burning Hand? What do you mean by that?"

"Oh? So you're saying that you don't belong to the cult?" Jyrian feigned puzzlement.

"You can't frame us with that," the female thief sneered. "You can't make us out to be some kind of demon worshippers. It's a stupid trick to try and scare us."

"Really?" Jyrian replied. She pursed her lips, pretending to think it over. "So you were only _hired_ by them to murder my friends."

"That's not true!" protested the talkative male thief.

"Oh? Would it surprise you to know that I knew you were coming even before you did? It was no accident that I caught the two of you in the alley. The Burning Hand wants these people dead, and they sent you to do it."

"Why, I can't imagine," Morhault drawled.

"She's right, Pel!" the burned man cried. "They were talking about it before, while they were patching me up."

Pel's eyes widened in shock.

"You can't be serious!"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" asked Jyrian. One would have to admit that the magician did not appear even slightly amused.

"It's not true!" the would-be assassin insisted. "Tell her, Tath. It was just a business deal--a merchant whose rival got in his way once too often."

Tabren looked curiously at Edric.

"Are we merchants, now? I don't _feel_ mercantile. Though, if I was doing so well that my enemies wanted me dead Aunt Lil would be really proud of me."

"I suppose that's one measure of success."

Tath, meanwhile, was giving her lieutenant a scorn-filled look.

"Don't be a baby, Pel. What do you care who hires you, so long as he pays?"

"Are you saying you knew that man was working for the Vile Tribe?"

"Of course not. I didn't know who he was. He might have been lying, or he might not. He paid in good, cold silver, and that was all I cared about."

Odd, Morhault though, how people drew moral lines for themselves. Apparently Pel had nothing against murdering innocent strangers in their sleep for money, but he wouldn't do it on behalf of Vile Tribe renegades. It was a curious place to decide that enough was enough. Then again, who was a fallen knight to quibble about someone else's definitions of right and wrong?

Jyrian's eyes sparkled as she cut into the conversation again. "You can settle this argument later; I just thought you should know where you stood before we got around to what _I_ want."

Tath's eyes narrowed and her stare hardened.

"I'm listening."

"My interest is the Burning Hand, not thieves who decided to take a step up from cutting purses to cutting throats. I want everything you know about the man who hired you: description, how he approached you, methods of payment--and here's the big question--how I can find him."

"So why should I care?"

"Oh, I don't know. Consider it your civic duty. You can save the people of Nota the expense of imprisoning, feeding, interrogating, and hanging you."

"Good rope's expensive these days," Edric contributed.

"Not to mention the high cost of burial," Morhault added, though a part of him thought they might be taking the phrase "gallows humor" a bit too literally.

"Surely you're a patriot at heart."

"I'm starting to get a positively warm feeling about the town."

"So you're saying that if we talk you'll let us go? Free and clear?" Pel chirped up.

Jyrian folded her arms across her chest. "That's about it. You'd cut out your grandmother's heart for five silver, so betraying someone you barely know in exchange for your life and freedom shouldn't be a big deal."

Tath shrugged, which wasn't all that easy with her hands tied behind her. "Yeah, sure; I ain't got any reason to love the guy."

"No, I suppose sending you out to murder people without telling you they were experienced fighters or magicians isn't likely to make you feel kindly towards him."

"That, too."

Jyrian turned to the other three prisoners.

"Just a word of advice, gentlemen. Listen closely to what she says. If she takes any little side trips away from the truth, it'll be in your best interests to tell me right away instead of letting me discover in on my own. I took the precaution of snipping locks of hair from each of you while you were unconscious, and with them it's a simple matter to find you no matter where on Lunar you run."

They looked suitably impressed by that.

"So, start feeling loquacious, Tath."

The female thief snorted.

"You can save the bad-girl act," she said defiantly, but there was little heat behind it and Jyrian's glare didn't so much as waver. "All right, all right. Usually we do our drinking in Dak's, a hangout for..."

"Individuals who believe in a freer redistribution of wealth?" suggested Morhault.

"Thieves, cutthroats, and gutter trash. Why pretty it up?"

"Why, indeed?"

"Anyway, we're there this evening, drinking off the profits from our last job, when this guy comes in. He looked like a merchant--doublet and hose under a hooded wool cloak, a heavy dagger at his belt instead of serious steel. He looks around the room like he's sizing the place up, the comes over to our table and drops a pouch in the middle of it. Hule opens it, and it's full of silver.

"Pel says, 'Who do we have to kill for this?' which sets the guy laughing because that's exactly what he wants. He gives us the story about business rivals, tells us which two rooms you're in at the Red Gryphon--"

"How did he know that?" Tabren interrupted.

"Probably," Morhault answered, "he just walked up to the innkeeper and said something like, 'Oh, I ran into some friends of mine who said they were staying here. I'm sure you know them, one is a lady with blue hair...' You do tend to stand out in a crowd, Elia."

"It's better than being mistaken for part of the rug," Jyrian noted. "Go on and finish the story, Tath."

"There's not much left to tell. We haggle over the price a bit, settle how much he'll pay us when we're finished, and then he leaves."

"What did he look like?"

"He was a pretty big guy. Not tall, but thick, if you know what I mean, and none of it is fat. Kinda like him." She nodded towards Edric. "Brown hair and beard, maybe forty years old."

It could have been the conspirator Morhault had caught in the alley, or just as easily some underling. There was probably more than one bearded man in the Burning Hand.

"So how are you going to get the second half of your payment?" Jyrian asked.

"I'm supposed to meet him just before dawn by the Old Market well and bring some proof that the job is done."

"What kind of proof?"

"He left it up to us."

"How about an ear?" Morhault suggested.

Jyrian looked at him oddly.

"You were planning to follow the bearded man back to the rest of the cult, weren't you?" he asked innocently. "I just thought that having him think we were dead might make him less suspicious. A person carrying a severed head through the street is a bit conspicuous, though, so I thought of ears. Plus, it's much easier to convince a person that an ear came from someone it didn't than a head."

"Which is important," noted Edric, "since while I'm sure we all oppose demon worship and the Vile Tribe in principle, donating an ear to the cause would be going a bit far."

Jyrian nodded. "I'm sure that the late, lamented Wat and Hule wouldn't mind, though. Oh, and perhaps a snippet of that distinctive Althena-blue hair of yours, Elia? It would add that extra touch of undeniable realism."

"My bangs are a bit long," Elia agreed.


	11. Meeting at the Well

It was raining again, a light drizzle that fell silently through the ghostly gray pre-dawn light. Morhault considered it appropriate weather for the morning's business. There was something about subterfuge and intrigue under a bright, shining sun that he disliked, a discordance that set his teeth on edge. He supposed it was silly, this liking for atmosphere, but there it was.

The Old Market was on one of the lowest terraces of the west side of Nota. When crafters from Meribia had settled there to work on the bridge, it had been the heart of town, the thriving center of business. Over time, though, the open-air markets had mostly moved to the east side of the bridge and the upscale shops to higher terraces, leaving the Old Market as the ill-lit center of a slum, surrounded by cheap taverns and the red lights of brothels. Beggars huddled in the adjoining alleyways, and the people who crept through the square had the hunched shoulders of beaten men. It was a harsh reminder that no society was perfect and that groups like the Burning Hand were a symptom, not the cause, of the dark side of humanity.

When a man who wasn't in the religion business started to think up sermons, it meant he had way too much time on his hands, so Morhault turned his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing. Tath and Pel were standing next to a chipped and pitted statue of Thalos de Alkirk, the Meribian governor who'd seen the trade potential of Nota. The statue was fairly distant from the wall, the one place in the square where people visited regularly.

"Do you think he'll show, Morhault?" Tabren wondered.

"If he's not an idiot. When the time comes to pay his debts, the wise man always puts the assassins first on the list."

"I'd call those words to live by."

"Don't smirk."

"_You_ smirk all the time."

"I do not."

"Oh? What do you call it?"

"I smile sardonically. There's all the difference in the world."

"I see. Just what difference would that be, again?"

"You're being unusually pert this morning."

The boy shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a rebellious adolescent."

Morhault grinned. "Self-pity."

"What?"

"Self-pity. It's the reason I don't smirk. We sardonic people are full of 'oh woe is me' bitterness and cynicism about the world. Smirkers just think they're smarter than everyone around them."

Tabren laughed.

"As for the rebellious-adolescent phase," Morhault continued, "I can cope with the disrespect towards perceived authority figures but for Althena's sake please warn me if you're going to start reciting love poetry."

"Don't worry; I've already been through that stage." He brushed a wet lock of sandy-colored hair out of his face.

"Do tell."

"I was thirteen, and I fell madly, absolutely, completely head-over-heels in love with Kitty, one of the Dolphin's barmaids. I actually wrote a sonnet to her eyes. Aunt Lil started regretting that she taught me to read at that point."

"What happened to Kitty?"

Tabren shook his head mournfully. "Alas, despite my best efforts, the fair maid did spurn my advances. She eventually married Welkern, the butcher's apprentice."

Morhault laughed heartily. The boy really did have a good sense of the absurd.

Tabren looked curiously at the fallen knight. "Is all this laughing a good idea? I mean, we're supposed to be inconspicuous."

"Right." The terse answer did nothing to relieve Tabren's confusion, so Morhault explained more fully. "Two armed men lurking in the shadows, watching silently as people come and go are about as obviously Up To No Good as it gets. Two armed men standing around, chatting naturally amongst themselves and laughing at bad jokes are more likely to be on their own business and therefore not making themselves interested in someone else's. The major problem is that we can't get so involved in our conversation that we miss him. Like right now, for example; I think that's him."

The man was wearing a hooded wool cloak. That didn't necessarily mean he was the one, given the pre-dawn chill, but his movements marked him out from the others. There was no slump to his posture; he showed vigor and confidence. _Not_ a typical Old Market denizen, by any means. He kept his distance from people as he made his way to the well; not even the world's best pickpocket could steal from someone five feet away. Tath and Pel crossed to meet him, proving Morhault right about the man's identity.

"Well, is it done?"

"Of course," Tath lied. "You think I'd be here, otherwise?"

"Yes," the demon-worshipper declared flatly, "if you thought you could get away with it. It's very easy to say that you've killed someone, and rats like you are always certain that you can creep back into your sewers and hide until the ones hunting you give up. I don't have time to prove that you're wrong about that, so instead you prove to me that you succeeded, like we agreed."

Tath sneered at him.

"Let's see your airs after you look at these."

She tossed him the small bag that contained Wat and Hule's right ears. Tabren flinched; he had _not_ been comfortable with this part of the plan. It was only to be expected, really, that he had the idealism boys his age were supposed to possess. That shy, gentle Elia hadn't so much as squeaked had been the real surprise. She evidently had a practical streak to her that fit well with her easy adaption to travel.

"Freshly harvested," the hooded man noted dryly. "You're a couple short, though."

"We heard the innkeeper in the hall outside and didn't have time to get the boy's. As for the wench, we thought what's there would be more distinctive."

He dipped his fingers into the bag and pulled out several strands of hair. A harsh smile crossed his face as he held them up to catch what light there was.

"Yes, I see what you mean. Many people have blue hair, but few in this precise shade." He passed back the bag--why carry evidence?--and then gave Tath a bulging pouch.

"You don't mind if we count it, do you?" she mocked. "It's very easy to short a few silver coins out of a pouch, and people who hire killers are always sure they can strut back to their mansions and hide out from the people they've cheated."

"You press your luck, gutter rat. I have associates who would cut your tongue out for such a slur."

Tath didn't bother to reply, instead pulling open the drawstring and spilling coins out into her palm. She didn't so much as count it as check that the pouch actually was filled with coins rather than some substitute and estimate the amount by weight.

"Satisfied? Or would you prefer to count it piece by piece?"

"This will do nicely." She slipped the money back into the pouch and tucked it away inside her clothes. "A pleasure doing business."

"A pleasurable end, at least."

The two thieves slipped off; their employer did not turn his back on them until they were well away. Only then did he head off for one of the narrow streets snaking away from the square.

"That's your cue, Tabren."

"I still don't know why this is my job."

"You're young. You sneak better than your creaky-jointed elders."

Jyrian was already in motion on the far side of the square. She and Tabren were to follow the cultist together, being the least conspicuous and the most likely to succeed. Morhault had the training and experience to move with relative stealth, but he tended to stand out in a crowd thanks to his size, and besides which he was the one the bearded man had gotten the best look at.

Ideally, of course, the job would have been done by Captain Nathane's expert professionals, but Jyrian hadn't even bothered to ask for his help.

"Nathane totally loathes you, Morhault," she'd told him. "He spent a good ten minutes after we left ranting about how he'd like to run you out of the city if he could, preferably on the end of a spear."

"What did I ever do to him?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. He's just one of those honor-and-duty fanatics. See, he's basically a decent man, but his job requires him to do all sorts of unsavory things, so he's elevated loyalty in his own mind to be the highest of all virtues. He can lie, cheat, steal, blackmail, or murder, and so long as it's part of his duty to the city of Nota, then he can do it with a smile and still sleep at night."

"I've met his kind before."

"It's the perfect mindset for a spy, but it also puts his opinion of you about one step below how he sees the Burning Hand. At least _they're_ loyal to their cause, evil and perverted as it may be. So long as you're involved in this, he's not going to be thinking rationally. He'd probably be half-convinced that the attempt on your life was all an act--especially since you lived."

The truth was, Morhault had met all too many people exactly like that. He caught more abuse for disobeying orders and so breaking his knightly oaths of obedience than he did for touching off the war, though that might have been as much a function of working as a mercenary as anything. Farmers and shopkeepers tended to be shocked at people being killed, but military officers--and people who wanted military officers working for them--got very attached to the chain of command, for obvious reasons. So he agreed with Jyrian; there was nothing to do but follow Tath's employer themselves.

"I don't suppose you could stop that? Ever since you got back here you've been marching up and down the room like a cadet on the parade ground."

"You know we cavalry types, Edric; we consider walking on our own feet a form of entertainment."

He stopped pacing, though, and instead rested his hands against the windowsill. There wasn't much of a view since the rock face of the cliff was about five feet away in that direction, but it didn't matter since he wasn't really seeing it, anyway. Nor had he done more than pick at the excellent breakfast the innkeeper had served up once he'd returned to the Red Gryphon. At least this private parlor gave him room to fret without bothering anyone but Edric and Elia, so he was glad they'd arranged it as a kind of conference room.

"We're worried about them, too."

"Thanks, Elia." He turned back to the room. "Relying on other people isn't something I'm very good at. No matter what I do, I'm completely helpless to change what happens." He wasn't too worried about Jyrian, although anyone could get caught in an ambush she was obviously more than capable of taking care of herself, probably more than he himself was. Tabren was a different story. The young man's fighting skills were strictly basic, capable of taking on footpads and brawlers but no real match for a trained armsman. If they continued to journey together, he would definitely have to give Tabren some lessons in swordplay. They boy would be starting late by knightly standards, but then again it was competence Morhault wanted to bring out in him, not the expertise in a dozen ways of fighting plus skills at tactics and strategy that a knight needed to learn.

Elia gave him a wan smile.

"That I can understand, at least. Being helpless isn't easy. I've been glad to have your help, and yours, Edric, and Tabren's as well, but it makes me feel useless, nothing but a burden on those who care for me."

She said it with such simple, plain-spoken honesty that Morhault felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry; I'll try to keep my whining in check."

"The day we stop worrying is the day we die," Edric said. "I'd lay odds that even your friend Krasek worries. Not about other people, of course, but I'm sure there's something that gnaws at him now and again."

"Whether he's going to get paid, probably." The renegade dropped back into his seat.

"Good. Like I was saying, it's not the worrying that's the problem, Morhault. It's the pacing back and forth that makes _us_ worry that I mind."

Fortunately for everyone's sanity, Jyrian and Tabren returned to the inn less than an hour later.

"From the way the two of you are grinning, I'd guess that the surveillance went well," Edric observed.

"Quite so. He had no idea we were there," confirmed Jyrian.

"He led us right to the cult's temple," crowed Tabren.

"Do you ever notice how cults always have temples?" Morhault asked. "I mean, the church of Althena has shrines, chapels, cathedrals, and so on, but whenever anyone sets up a cult, they immediately call their house of worship a temple."

"I think 'temple' brings with it a sense of grandeur. Most cultists are easily impressed, so that kind of thing is important to them," Edric pointed out.

"This one's an old mill," Jyrian said. "We asked around, and people said it was abandoned about fifty years ago when the river's course changed. Apparently there was a big rockslide south of here and now the water goes over a falls instead of working its way around a slope."

"The locals say it's haunted," Tabren contributed. "They say that people go in and never come out again."

"No doubt the Hand would be more than happy to help any ghosts along in that area," Morhault noted dryly.

"That's sort of what we figured."

"So," Edric observed, "although none of us are priests, shall we go there and instruct them in the proper forms of worship?"

Tabren grinned. Jyrian did not.

"Wait a minute. I appreciate you being the bait in the trap and helping me turn it on them, but this is another matter altogether."

"You're going onto enemy ground against an unknown force. Having backup is just good sense, and you've already told us how you're not likely to have official support."

Edric's points were reasonable, and they made Jyrian think.

"You genuinely want to help? Not just out of some sense of obligation, but for its own sake?"

"To help Jyrian Mageborn track down the Burning Hand? It's the chance of a lifetime!" Tabren exclaimed.

"This is not a game, Tabren!" Morhault snapped angrily, getting the words out a moment before Jyrian herself could. "These are people who will stop at nothing to achieve their ends, fanatics who have rejected all the basic underpinnings of society and given themselves over to assist in overthrowing Althena herself. There may even be actual members of the Vile Tribe. You could have been killed last night, and you'll be at risk again if you decide to take up that fight."

"But, Morhault..."

"No buts. When you get to be Jyrian's age and have her skills and experience, then you can go looking for adventure for its own sake. Until then, you have to at least consider the consequences of what you're doing."

Tabren looked down, suitably chastened, and it was Elia who answered for him.

"Morhault, last night Jyrian came on her own to help us, even though the people she's working with saw no reason to. Yes, she has a mission from her Guild, but she believed in us, and as Edric said, she could use our help. It's true that Edric, Tabren, and I may not be as skilled as fighting as the two of you, but we're not defenseless. I'm sure we're as good as ordinary cityguards, and that's who'd be with her if Captain Nathane would help, so we wouldn't be in any more danger than those soldiers would."

Morhault looked at Jyrian.

"Technically, I suppose I'm working for Elia, so if she wants in you have my help, too."

"What, everyone but me?" Tabren protested. "Dragonmaster Alex was younger than me when he set out on his adventures."

"No one's saying you can't come," Jyrian said. "Morhault said only--and I agree--that if you volunteer you have to do so seriously, not as a lark. Like Elia said, you'll be taking the place of cityguards, who risk their lives for duty."

"Except that they get paid for it," Edric noted pragmatically.

"Well, now so do you," Jyrian declared. "I'm willing to accept the help, but fair's fair, so from now on you can consider yourselves as mercenaries employed by the Magic Guild."

That, at least, was a relief. Morhault had been wondering how long he'd have to fund the expedition, especially since Edric had announced that he was leaving. It was far easier for Jyrian to roam Lunar writing wrongs when she was drawing a Master-rank stipend from her extremely wealthy Guild plus had access to an expense account while she was on Guild business. One reason there weren't more do-gooders in the world was because it wasn't a particularly well-paying business.

Tabren apparently agreed with the sentiment; he was positively grinning. Either that or he still had his heart set on being a hero. Having had experience with squires and apprentices before, Morhault was fairly certain it was the latter.

He only hoped that the boy didn't learn the hard way about the other reason heroes were rare. The learning curve for champions of virtue was steep, and one slip was usually one too many.


	12. Vile Ceremony

The morning's rain had died out a little after noon, but the leaden gray clouds remained overhead, blotting out the light of the Blue Star and making the night as black as pitch, broken up only by the occasional street lamps and torches, or the light streaming out an unshuttered window. In that respect, Althena--or blind fortune--seemed to be smiling on the five companions as they approached the old mill.

The mill wasn't very far outside Nota on the east side of the river; if not for the citizens' resistance to spoiling the town's unique character by sprawling out on the flatland around the cliffs it could easily have been within the city limits. A stand of oaks helped to conceal it from view, though, and the number of travelers who went in and out of Nota on a daily basis no doubt camouflaged the fact that people visited the abandoned building regularly.

The building was quite large, consisting not only of the mill itself but also the attached house of what had once been a well-off miller's family. The water wheel lay in the grass, slowly rotting away, the only sign that the fast-flowing Azado River had once rushed through here, right under where Morhault stood.

There were bound to be sentries, probably not outside where they might attract attention from the locals, but certainly inside, guarding the doors or keeping watch from the windows. The near-total darkness worked for the intruders, though; they crept up on the far side, where the wheel had once hung and there were few openings, then snuck along the side of the mill to a window. Dim light showed through it.

"Clever; this side faces away from the road and right into the trees. A light wouldn't attract attention," Jyrian murmured.

"Can you see inside?" Morhault asked.

"Two men; they look like guards, but they're facing the other way."

Morhault edged up to the window and took a glance himself, keeping his head as far to the side as possible. The two men were standing near a door on the other side of the room, wore black robes, and had unpleasant-looking axes with strange, crooked handles at their belts. Their main concern seemed to be watching that door, rather than keeping an eye on the rest of the room.

"Do you know any spells that could take them down from here?"

"Without the usual window-smashing pyrotechnics, I presume you mean?" Jyrian replied.

Morhault drew back from the window.

"Right. If we alert them I don't want to fight through the window to get in while they're busy raising an alarm. None of us knows how big the cult here is, or who--or _what_--belongs."

"There's one that might work, only it has a few flaws."

"Like what?"

"It takes about two minutes to get it to work, I have to see the ones I'm casting it on the whole time I'm casting it, and if they become aware of me during the process it will ruin the effect."

"Yes, I would call those problems. Edric, Elia, does either of you have an improvement on that?"

Edric shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Morhault. I do know a sleep spell--it's easier for sedating patients than drugs and less dangerous--but it works by scent."

"Herbal Breeze?" Jyrian asked.

Edric nodded.

"Right. It would be fine, if the window was open."

"If I do know something, then I don't remember it," Elia sighed. "I probably don't, though. Fire magic is usually all _about_ 'pyrotechnics.'"

"There's a pun in there somewhere," Morhault said, "but we should probably leave it alone. Jyrian, I guess you should give it your best shot."

The dark-haired magician began to cast her spell, murmuring the incantation as softly as possible while moving her hands in quick, precise gestures. The others waited breathlessly, hands on their weapons, sure as each second ticked by that one of the guards would turn around and shout an alarm. Sweat tricked down the back of Morhault's neck.

Then, before his eyes, the room seemed to fill with sparkling, dancing motes like tiny snowflakes, and the light took on a bluish cast. The two guards crumpled soundlessly to the floor, and the room's interior returned to normal.

"Not bad," Edric approved.

"I invented it myself," Jyrian said with a touch of pride. "It mimics the way someone who is freezing to death starts to feel more and more sleepy."

"They aren't dead, are they?" Elia wondered.

"No, 'freezing to death' was just the concept I used in my mind as a starting point for how the spell worked. Ice isn't the most obvious element for a sleep spell. Us slipping in and moving through the room won't wake them up, though."

It was easy enough to open the window and slip inside, once the guards were no longer a problem. Since magical sleep didn't last forever, they took the precaution of binding and gagging the guards. This was enough to break the spell, but by then it was too late for the men to do more than glare menacingly over their gags, which didn't impress anyone.

"So, what were these two guarding?" Morhault asked. "The only things in here are a table, chairs, a flask of wine, and a candle."

"Well," Jyrian mused, "they were watching for people coming through this door here, across from the window." She tried the knob. "It's locked. I'd say that means they must be guarding that other door other there, on the side wall."

"It's locked, too," Tabren found.

"Do the guards have the keys?" asked Elia.

"Only this one," Morhault said, holding it up. He'd found it on a thong around one's neck when he'd patted them down for hidden weapons.

Jyrian tried it, but found that it fit the wrong door.

"So this door goes somewhere so important that they set up a special guard room to keep people from wandering in and they don't even trust the guards with the key. I wish I knew how to pick locks."

"Well, there's always the universal key," Morhault said.

"It's worth a try," she agreed. "Assuming there's not another dozen guards within earshot."

"What are they talking about?" Tabren asked Edric.

Morhault lifted one booted foot and slammed it into the door just above the lock. The flimsy wood splintered and the door swung open.

"Never mind."

"He's lucky it wasn't barred, or he might have racked up an ankle."

The only thing behind the door was a dark, narrow staircase leading upwards. It didn't look particularly inviting, but no one would set armed men and two locked doors to protect something valueless. Since no one heard any shouts of alarm or running feet responding to the breaking door, Morhault drew his sword, took the candle from the table, and led the way upstairs. The stairs ended at a trapdoor, which opened up into a completely bare room set close under the roof beams. The far end of the room, though, had no floor, and a great deal of light was coming up from beneath. Several voices filtered up, indicating that a fair number of people were gathered there. Morhault blew out the candle, then he and his companions crept forward to look into the room below. What they saw took his breath away.

The large room was the mill works itself, though the machinery was long gone, probably removed when the owners closed down fifty years ago. The open floor was probably because some of that machinery had been too tall for one story, and the half-attic made it easier to reach the upper part for repairs.

The Burning Hand had made good use of the empty workspace. The bare wood floor was divided by a ribbon of red carpet that led from the door up to an altar plated in polished brass. Two iron braziers burned on the altar with an eerie mint-green flame, while between them on a small brass stand rested a smooth, amber-hued, fist-sized orb. Behind the altar stood the bearded man, now wearing a long, black robe like a priest's cassock, with a heavy copper-and-gold medallion on an iron chain around his neck. Facing him was a congregation of perhaps fifteen people, both men and women, dressed in plain black robes.

_No wonder they guarded this room; it's a perfect vantage point to spy on them without being seen_, Morhault thought, _They can't do anything about it, either. It would take some major construction work, which isn't really appropriate for a supposedly abandoned building._

"Tabren," he murmured softly, "go keep a watch to make sure no one slips up the stairs behind us."

The boy frowned, but rose and went back without arguing.

"I suspect there will be some things coming up here that he shouldn't really be exposed to," Morhault answered the quizzical expressions of the others. Elia in particular smiled warmly in response.

Morhault's fears proved to be well-justified. The dark priest harangued his followers steadily about the glories of the Pyre Lord, the deity or spirit the cult apparently claimed would lead the Vile Tribe (and its human alles) to overthrow Althena's will. It continued for around ten more minutes, with the gathered cultists providing the proper liturgical responses on cue, just as if they were an ordinary congregation. Then the priest raised his arms and cried out, "Bring the sacrifice!"

A strange chant in a minor key began to rise from the throats of the worshippers as two of the robed cultists brought forward a sturdy cage containing what looked like a three-foot-long butterfly. Morhault recognized it at once as a giga wasp, a creature native to the nearby Nanza Barrier, from the unappetizing pink and gold coloration. It was a relief, he supposed, that the sacrifice wasn't something meek or cute, but he still winced when the priest slashed open its thorax with brutal efficiency. Misplaced sympathy for a creature that liked to put victims to sleep and lay its eggs in their bodies, no doubt, but there it was.

One by one the worshippers came to the altar, still chanting that eerie, sonorous litany. The priest dipped his fingers in the putrescent green ichor of the dead monster and sprinkled the face of each cultist in turn. Morhault's stomach twisted as he watched the mockery of the blessing ceremony; he wondered how many of the black-robed worshippers really understood what they were doing and how many only participated for the excitement, the chance to have a secret to hold close to their heart to make them feel special and important while they lived their day-to-day lives.

The cultists resumed their places on either side of the carpet while the bearded priest returned to his own post behind the altar. He raised his arms again and began to chant. The melody was a different one than had accompanied the rite of sacrifice, and as his followers joined in it became clear despite their indifferent singing voices that the song was hauntingly, achingly beautiful. The words were not in that archaic dialect the cult had used for their earlier chant but were instead reminiscent of the syllables Jyrian and Elia used to cast their spells.

The song swelled, driven by the powerful voice of the priest, backed by choral harmonics, until it seemed to fill the dark temple with a tangible presence. The music flowed through the air, giving Morhault the strange sensation that he was drawing it into his body with every breath. The amber-colored jewel on the altar seemed to feel the song as well, for it began to glow, first with a faint glimmer deep inside the orb, then with a steady, shining aura of light more brilliant than the flames of the braziers.

A soft, whimpering cry made Morhault turn his head, and he saw to his surprise that Jyrian's entire body was tensed, a grimace of pain or effort on her face. Farther along, Elia seemed to be suffering in the same fashion, only with a less pronounced effect. Her fists were clenched and her jaw set. Sweat ran down Edric's face, and grunts of exertion came from deep within his throat. It was as if all three of them were under some terrible pressure, a force to which Morhault was somehow immune.

The song reached a towering crescendo, then plunged into silence. The orb pulsed once, brilliantly, and then its light subsided. Jyrian sagged onto the dusty planks, all but fainting, while relief was unmistakably written on the faces of the other two. The bearded priest ended the service, calling down their master's benediction on his followers, and the robed cultists began to shuffle towards the exit.

"Are you all right?" Morhault asked the others anxiously, though still remembering to keep his voice in that low, not-quite-a-whisper that would carry only a few feet.

"I feel like I've been stepped on by a horse," Jyrian moaned, "but I'll recover. I think."

Elia wiped the sheen of perspiration from her face with her sleeve.

"I'm all right, Morhault, just a bit winded."

"Edric?"

The former soldier pushed himself upright. "Give me a minute. Men my age don't recover as easily as young ladies."

"What happened to you?" Morhault asked. "What was that ceremony, and why wasn't I affected by it?"

Jyrian groaned.

"Go get Tabren. If I'm right, he wasn't hurt, either."

"All right." He went back to the other end of the attic.

"Are the morally offensive parts over with?" the young man asked waspishly.

"We _did_ need someone to watch the stairs, you know."

"Yes, but you didn't pick me by accident. I did grow up in a wharfside inn, Morhault; I'm familiar with most of the things people do to each other."

"Human sacrifice?"

Tabren's eyes widened.

"They _didn't_?"

"No, just a giga wasp--this time. It was nauseating, but not particularly obscene."

Grinning, Tabren replied, "I was expecting some kind of ritual mating. That's the sort of thing that usually makes people your age nervous."

"The Burning Hand wants to take over the world. I doubt they care much about orgies."

"I guess you're right. Pretty song, though."

"You didn't happen to feel anything strange during it, did you?"

Tabren frowned. "I was a little confused because I couldn't understand the words, but that can't be what you mean."

"No, I had something a bit more dramatic in mind. Come on back, but keep your eyes mainly this way. The worshippers are leaving, and someone may go and check on the guards."

They went over to the edge. In the temple below, two cultists were acting as deacons, extinguishing the braziers, removing the dead wasp, and generally cleaning up. Jyrian had joined Edric and Elia in standing, although she looked quite the worse for wear.

"Althena's tears, Jyrian, what happened to you?" Tabren exclaimed, though he too had kept his voice down to avoid alerting those below.

"You were right, Jyrian," Morhault told her. "He didn't feel a thing. What does it mean?"

"The three of us," she said, indicating Edric, Elia, and herself with a wave of her hand, "all possess magical talents, though in different elements and with different intensities. You two don't have that power."

Morhault pondered that for a moment.

"You were hit the worst," he mused, "and you have the strongest talent."

"Good point. The feeling I got was almost exactly like the feeling of exhaustion that comes after using too much magic in too short a time, and since I presumably have more potential in that area, more was drained from me over the same amount of time."

"That's exactly what it felt like," Elia confirmed. "It was just as if I was casting spell after spell while they chanted. I could feel the song pulling at my spirit, draining my strength."

"None of the cultists seemed affected, so they're probably not magicians, either," Morhault observed. "Wait, though. The priest would almost have to be, wouldn't he?"

Tabren looked at him curiously.

"Why would he be a magician? Not all of Althena's priests can use magic."

Elia surprised all of them by answering first.

"Yes, they can, at least a little. They're taught how to call upon Althena's power through their spells."

"She's right," Jyrian confirmed. "They might not be able to do _much_ magic--it varies from person to person--but they can all do at least a little bit. It's different from the magic we do, which calls upon the elemental power of the Four Dragons."

"I think that's why it's easier. It's like...opening a different channel in the spirit for magic to pass through--like walking around a hill instead of climbing over it."

"Wait, then--why can't you magicians walk around the hill?" Tabren asked.

"Different destinations. It's like...well, like the healing spells are on the other side, but the fire magic is on top of the hill, so Elia _has_ to climb it," Jyrian pushed the metaphor.

"We're wandering a little far afield here," observed Edric. He had a point, realized Morhault. The main room of the temple had been all but deserted while they talked; only the priest and one worshipper remained. The cultist said something to the bearded man, who shook his head and replied in a voice loud enough to carry to the attic, "Not here; we'll talk in my office."

The priest drew on a pair of kid leather gloves and picked up the amber orb from its stand on the altar, tucking it quickly away inside his cassock. The two men then left through a side door from the temple chamber.

"I'd give a lot to be able to hear what they're saying in there."

"We can't risk going the long way around, Jyrian," Morhault said. "If we run into any cultists, there would be a fight, possibly an alarm raised. Most plotters get nervous when there's blood running in the halls outside their door."

"So what do you suggest?" Edric asked. "Jyrian's right; we need to know what those two are saying."

Tabren pointed at the open floor. "There's a perfectly good hole right here."

"It's twenty feet down. I haven't been practicing my flying, lately."

"Don't be crabby, Edric," Morhault chided. "Besides, don't you have some of that rope left?"

Edric got the rope out of his pack, and in only a few moments the five of them had descended to the temple chamber.


	13. Jyrian's Wrath

The Burning Hand's temple was deserted; the only things moving were the flames of oil lamps hanging by the various doors. The door the priest and his companion had gone through was as thin and cheaply constructed as the one Morhault had broken open, making it fairly easy to hear the voices on the other side. Even better, he found a narrow chink between two boards through which he could look. Jyrian pressed her ear to the door alongside him, while the other three kept watch in case any cultists returned, though they too strained to listen as best they could.

The room beyond had probably once been the mill office, but now had been converted to a combination sleeping area and study for the Burning Hand's priest. Morhault couldn't see all of it, but he did see the corner of a canopied bed, a bookcase with packed shelves, an ornate sideboard that looked vaguely Meribian, and a large, polished table. The high quality of these furnishings was in stark contrast to the rough plank walls and floor of the old mill.

The cultist who'd joined the bearded priest lifted a goblet of wine to his lips and drank deeply. He was a clean-shaven man with graying brown hair, and he looked worried.

"I don't like coming here, Geldoth," he said. "Slipping out of town after dark looks suspicious." Morhault was not particularly surprised to realize that his voice was that of the other man from the Red Gryphon. "Bad enough having to meet at the inn, but there was at least the excuse that I wanted to try the food and made a chance acquaintance. Here, with all that out there"--he waved at the sanctuary door--"there's no chance of escape."

"You're a coward, Syrek," Geldoth declared flatly, "and your fear impairs your usefulness to our Master."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Syrek protested.

"Yet you wouldn't be, if you believed you could avoid it. You came to the altar of the Pyre Lord seeking the power only we could grant, because you weren't satisfied being only a minor official. Now you are the undersecretary to Chancellor Torvas, and capable of stepping into her shoes should she meet with an...accident...as did your predecessor."

A hiss of indrawn breath escaped Jyrian as she realized how far the Burning Hand had penetrated into Nota's government. The chancellor acted as the mayor's right hand, overseeing all administrative functions of the city.

"I've done what you asked, haven't I?"

Geldoth struck his gloved fist on the table.

"This is not a marketplace, Syrek!" he roared. "You do not barter here! You do not say, 'I will do this task and you will reward me.' The Pyre Lord is your _master_, as it is for us all. You are a servant of the grand dream, of a world free from Althena's yoke, and you will obey regardless of _payment_." His dark, nearly black eyes glittered. "Furthermore, your disrespect to me is intolerable, and I will have no more of it! In the world you are a man of power, but here you are only one of many followers of our Master."

"F-forgive me, your lordship."

"Better. I will make you fit for service, Syrek Allard, or I will break you. You plot and scheme like a crawling spider. Trembling fear and unwillingness to act is Althena's way; boldness and indomitable will is ours."

"As your lordship says."

"Now, sit down. We must conclude our business from two nights ago. It will please you to know that the meddlers who interrupted us have paid for their interference."

"You had them killed?" Syrek asked with almost childlike eagerness.

"Of course. We could not take the chance of them standing as witnesses against us."

"That is good news," the minister said with a sigh. "It's more calming even than this excellent wine."

"Indeed. Now to business," Geldoth cut off any more sallies the other man might make in the direction of small talk. "You made the arrangements for the armor to be delivered?"

"I did. Since supplying the cityguard is ultimately the chancellor's responsibility, it was easy to insert the false orders. The wagon is already on its way west together with its escort."

"How many soldiers are in the escort?"

"Eight, as you instructed."

"Good. I presume the theft will not be noticed?"

Syrek shook his head quickly. "Not without considerable time and trouble. I manipulated the paperwork so that the diversion would be almost impossible to discover, as I did with the weapons last week. You'll be able to build yourself a substantial unit of the Notan cityguard with those uniforms, armor, and regulation weapons."

"Precisely," Geldoth said, smiling.

"But, what do you want to do that for?" the cultist asked, then hurriedly added, "If you feel I can know, your lordship."

"It's important for you to know. There's a part for you to play to enhance the effects of our plan."

Geldoth rose from his chair and walked over to the bookcase, surveying the volumes. "Our goal, as it has ever been, is conquest and domination in the name of our Master. In time, all of Lunar will follow a single banner. But to establish a new order, the old must first be destroyed. This was the mistake of the Magic Emporer. He forced a confrontation with the Dragonmaster, the Magic Guild, and the other so-called defenders of Althena."

He selected a book and slid it from its place.

"This month, the Governor of Meribia will make a tour of the city's protectorates in the Katarina Zone, which will involve a trip through the Nanza Barrier. Along the way, his party will be attacked by a force of armsmen. These attackers will initially appear to be common bandits, but beneath their rude smocks and cloaks they will be wearing leather armor blazoned with Nota's crest, and their officers will have surcoats with the same mark. The obvious conclusion will be that Nota has assassinated the Meribian governor for some political reason. As the armor and weapons the attackers use will actually _be_ cityguard issue, suggestions of fraud will quickly be set aside. As the Notan government is innocent, the Mayor will of course deny everything. The inevitable outcome will be war, a savage conflict that will embroil Lunar's two greatest trade powers in self-destructive violence. In addition to the immediate chaos, the economic fallout will be felt worldwide."

Syrek nodded thoughtfully as he took in the scheme.

"What is my part in all this?"

"At first, instigator. You will cry out to the Chancellor, the Mayor, to anyone who will listen, that it must be an attempt to frame Nota. You'll accuse those who assume power in Meribia of assassinating their own governor to seize control and to justify a war of conquest."

The minister smiled nastily and toyed with the rim of his goblet.

"I see. The Governor's daughter is, I believe, a child of five, so one of the other Houses will have to step forward, making it the perfect time for opportunists to climb the ladder."

"Exactly. After the war has gone on for some time and both cities are weakened, we'll assassinate the Mayor. Since you were the one who originally arranged the thefts of military equipment, you can 'discover' the evidence and 'reveal' it as a plot by the Chancellor to seize power. She will be convicted of treason, and then you can step in and arrange a peace settlement with our followers in Meribia. Nota will have to elect a new mayor at that point, and who better than the man who uncovered the treasonous plot and brought an end to the costly war?"

"Meanwhile," Syrek hazarded a guess, "the followers of the Burning Hand will make a push to become the new Governor of Meribia. The strongest military powers of Lunar will have ground down their strength against each other, _and_ their governments will be in our hands to further hamstring any effective resistance to the Master."

Geldoth smiled with such naked ambition that it sent a shudder through Morhault.

"You understand my meaning precisely."

"Who is it that I will be working with in Meribia?"

"You'll be told at the appropriate time. Until then, you cannot reveal what you do not know."

Syrek clearly didn't like that, but he didn't protest. Geldoth was the type of man one really didn't want to irritate too many times in the course of one conversation. He might conclude that Syrek's best place in his plan was as a substitute for the giga wasp instead of the Mayor.

"What's the motivation for the 'plot' I'm supposed to reveal, then? Why did Nyrel Torvas decide to scheme at murder?"

Geldoth laughed.

"Can't you tell? That's the beauty of it, Syrek. When you lay your charges, you'll be telling the absolute truth about what happened and why. The only thing you'll alter is _who_. That way, you'll have _real_ evidence to support the more outrageous of your claims."

Morhault clenched his fist angrily. He glanced over at Jyrian and saw that she shared his expression of raw, black rage.

"I think we've heard enough," he ground out between gritted teeth. His sword slid neatly from its scabbard.

"I won't be able to contribute any magic," Jyrian replied quietly, drawing her own blade. "That ceremony left me too drained to cast spells without getting some rest."

"What are you two planning?" Edric asked.

"It's very simple," Morhault said. "The priest of the Burning Hand and the undersecretary to the Chancellor are plotting heresy, treason, multiple regicides, and common murder, not to mention initiating a war that will make the one I touched off look like a quiet skirmish. We were going to go in there and save the city the expense of their trials."

"That sounds appropriate."

"I thought it might."

Morhault kicked the door open, not because it was locked but in order to gain a few seconds' surprise. He wanted to act first, because in all likelihood the priest was a magician, and if he got the chance to use a spell the fight could end up in favor of the wrong side. It worked; Syrek sat there terrified, eyes bulging, while Geldoth hesitated for a moment, trying to process what was happening.

"You said they were dead!" the bureaucrat screamed, diving under the table an instant before Morhault reduced the chair he'd been seated in to kindling with a massive two-handed stroke.

Jyrian, meanwhile, had ignored Syrek and gone straight for the dark priest, leaping up onto the table to save time. Regaining his senses, though, he snatched up Syrek's wine-cup and threw the dregs full in Jyrian's face. Geldoth immediately darted for his bed and tugged hard on a bell-rope that hung alongside it.

A side door that Morhault hadn't been able to see from the outside burst open, and six men rushed through in response to Geldoth's summons. Each wore the black robe of the cult and carried one of the odd, crooked-handled war axes like the guards had.

"Kill them!" Geldoth ordered as Jyrian wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. Morhault, Edric, and Tabren turned to meet the charging armsmen, while Elia showed the wit to stay back out of the way. Syrek scrambled through the sanctuary door, still on his hands and knees. Geldoth, though, was cut off from either avenue of escape, as the guards' door was on the side of the room opposite the bed.

Morhault switched to a one-handed grip, blocked an axe-stroke on his gauntlet, and cut down the cultist who'd launched it. Edric used his staff to parry an attack, then slid the oak shaft up the axe's haft, hooked it under the axe-blade's long lower flange, and twisted the weapon out of the guard's hands before bashing him solidly in the face. The axemen weren't wearing mail under their robes and they weren't particularly good fighters. No doubt they were just common merchants and crafters from Nota, making Morhault feel almost sorry as he ran another one through. Whatever they'd been, though, they were certainly willing to kill now in the name of the cult, so the renegade steeled his heart and fought on. Although clumsy, they were doing an excellent job of keeping the companions away from Geldoth, since it was rarely a good idea to turn one's back on a man with an axe.

Jyrian, though, had never gotten caught up in the fighting, and as she managed to clear her eyes she realized that she effectively had the priest cornered. He seemed to realize the same thing.

"I'd love to stay and discuss our religious differences, but I really must be going." Geldoth quickly stripped the glove off his right hand and pulled out the amber-colored orb. It pulsed brightly in his hand, and he staggered, but then he straightened up and a shimmering nimbus of light surrounded his body. In an instant, he vanished, Jyrian's rapier spearing through empty air where his heart had been. Dumbfounded, she turned just in time to duck a flailing cut from one of the guards and riposted with deadly efficiency. Less than two minutes later, the last of the cultists were finished off. Morhault looked out into the sanctuary in the hope of finding Syrek, but the undersecretary was long gone.

Jyrian cursed angrily, using a number of words that made Elia blush.

"She'd put the sailors at the Dolphin to shame," Tabren realized, awed by her fluency.

"Considering that both of them got clean away, I'm considering a few choice oaths of my own," Morhault noted.

"That's not why I'm so angry," Jyrian said, wiping off her rapier before ramming it back into its sheath with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Oh? What is it, then?"

"It's Geldoth's little vanishing trick. It's impossible! Teleportation is _holy_ magic, and I don't think he qualifies."

"Perhaps he became invisible?" Edric suggested.

"That's impossible, too. Most invisibility doesn't actually make something not visible, it persuades the viewer not to notice it with their conscious mind. It wouldn't work if I was already aware of him in anything more than the most peripheral way, which of course includes combat. Besides, even if he had become invisible he'd have had a foot of steel through his invisible heart. There wasn't time for him to dodge my thrust." She kicked at the floor, frustrated. "But the biggest thing of all is, teleportation or invisibility, either way, he didn't cast a spell!"

"What?"

"Did _you_ hear an incantation?"

"No, but we were a little busy at the time," Morhault observed.

"Human beings can't use magic without casting a spell. Even releasing the magic in an item like a staff that throws fire or a Dragonfly Wing takes a command phrase. Geldoth pulled out that orb, but he didn't perform any spell or invocation."

"Meaning what?" Morhault snapped. He wasn't happy himself over the priest's escape, and Jyrian's slow boat to the point was getting on his nerves. "He obviously _did_ perform magic or he's _be_ here now."

It was Elia who answered, something that still came as a surprise, even though it shouldn't. Her memory loss, after all, seemed largely limited to her own life and abilities, and as a magician she'd certainly have had an above-average education plus professional knowledge.

"Apart from the Goddess, the only people who can work magic by an act of will, without spells, are the magic race of Vane, who so far as I know all died out, and the Vile Tribe."

"So we're up against a demon-worshipper who has built up an elaborate scheme of intrigue and treachery, wants us dead for opposing him, and is either a member of the arcane Vile Tribe or has a nifty magic toy that lets him do things that only the Viles are able to do," Morhault summed up. "I knew hanging around with a hero would be trouble."


	14. Lessons in the Barrier

"I'm still not sure why we're not heading directly for Meribia," Tabren asked. He shifted the heavy pack on his shoulders in a futile hope for comfort. They'd left the pack horse behind in Nota because the rough ledges and twisting mountain passes of the Nanza Barrier actually made horses unable to travel as fast as a human walking. "I'd think the best thing to do would be to warn the Governor before he leaves the city so he can increase his escort--or send out a few army battalions to destroy the Burning Hand's mercenaries."

"It's the timing," Morhault explained. "We absolutely have to prevent the assassination, and if we don't get to Meribia until after the Governor leaves then we might not catch up until it's too late. Besides that, the Nanza Barrier is the best place for ambush, so it's the Chief Magistrate of Nanza who's in the best position to arrange for protection. Besides, this _is_ the fastest route to Meribia from Nota."

"Wait a minute. I looked at the map, and the road that runs up through Zulan Gap is lots shorter."

Jyrian laughed.

"You wouldn't say that if you'd been up there," she said. "You think the Barrier is hard going, but the Zulan road is twice as bad, and that's not even counting the snow. In a cold year, it won't have melted yet. This is a major trade artery, so the worst spots have been smoothed out."

"So you've been to Zulan Gap?" Morhault asked. It was one of the few places he'd never visited.

"Yes," she replied tersely.

"Of _course_ she has!" Tabren exclaimed. "That's where she defeated the Ice Wraith! Haven't you heard the song?"

Jyrian winced.

"Please, by Althena's mercy, don't mention that again!"

Tabren didn't understand what the problem was, but he supposed it was up to her, so he dropped the subject. He soon found another one, though, as silence let his sore back do the talking.

"Something else bothers me. The whole plan depends on the Meribians believing Nota was responsible for the attack, right?"

"Right."

"Well, that kind of means finding bodies. If I'm a mercenary, though, I can't spend my pay if I'm dead, so I'm going to try to stay alive through the job."

"Speaking as a mercenary, I'd have to agree with you."

"Then," Tabren concluded triumphantly, "what if the mercenaries do such a good job that they don't lose anyone? The whole plan falls apart if there aren't any false Notans left behind."

"That's extremely unlikely," Jyrian said. "The Governor's escort will be sizeable, probably including a magician. If the mercenaries want to make sure of killing the Governor, they'll almost certainly have losses."

"Besides which, the cult planned for the chance," Morhault added.

"Oh?"

"Remember, the shipments of weapons and armor were escorted by a nominal force of real cityguards. They'll be kept prisoner until the time comes, then executed. Their bodies can be used to salt the battlefield with Notan soldiers."

"That's hideous!" Tabren exclaimed.

"Ordinary warfare is hideous all by itself. When you add the Burning Hand to the mix it can't help but become worse. You've been involved in three life-or-death fights now and actually fought in two of them, Tabren, so you should have an idea of that already."

The boy nodded sickly. It was a purely natural response; only monsters like Krasek _weren't_ upset when confronted first-hand by violent death. Morhault himself, though long accustomed to combat, never felt quite right with himself after a battle in which it had been necessary to kill. There was a difference between being pragmatic and being inhuman.

He hoped.

"I miss Edric," Elia sighed. "He'd have had a dozen different infantry jokes by now." She was actually adapting better to carrying her own gear than was Tabren, though she wasn't as physically strong.

"That might just be the best excuse for leaving him behind," Morhault said dryly.

Edric had remained in Nota, not only for his original reasons but also to approach his mentor about the Burning Hand's plot. Ordinarily that would have been Jyrian's job, since she'd already been working on the investigation, but she absolutely had to be one of those who went to Meribia. The name of the Magic Guild and Jyrian's own reputation were the only chance they had to come off as credible witnesses, so she couldn't chance being stuck in Nota's red tape.

"I wonder what Syrek is going to do," the renegade continued.

"He's probably still running," Tabren said derisively.

Jyrian shook her head, making her black curls bounce.

"Not necessarily, Tabren. If he's thinking clearly, he might try to brazen it out. He surely has a number of political allies in the city, and the only evidence linking him to the Vile cultists is the testimony of five people, four of whom won't be there to offer that testimony. When you add that to Nathane's distrust of anything Morhault might be connected to, there wouldn't be much chance of even bringing Syrek to trial, let alone convicted of a capital crime. If we're _really_ lucky--if Beldar is a close friend of the Mayor or Chancellor, say--then Syrek might lose his job. Conversely, if he's able to manipulate things to his advantage, he might color it all as a political scheme cooked up by his enemies."

Tabren boggled at her. "You mean, we catch him red-handed with the Burning Hand, plotting to assassinate two city leaders and start a war, and it ends up _helping_ him gain power?"

"I'm not saying it's inevitable. It depends a lot on what Nota's political situation is, and Syrek's level of skill. I'd be a lot more worried if Geldoth had been the undersecretary. He's obviously more intelligent, more ruthless, and considerably braver. It's a dangerous combination. So far as first impressions count for anything, Syrek is just a puppet."

"So that's why we're not staying in Nota to block his plans?"

"That and the urgency. If we can stop the assassination of the Governor then the Burning Hand's entire plot falls apart. They'll have to regroup and start over. So by rushing off to the Katarina Zone, we can draw Syrek's fangs for a time." She smiled impishly at him. "Does that satisfy your patriotic worries?"

Tabren looked away sheepishly.

"I'm not really making fun of you, Tabren. The Madoria Plains are a peaceful, cultured region with internal stability and relatively bloodless politics. The people are a bit conservative for my tastes, socially, but that comes with prosperity. You ought to be proud of your home Zone, and it does you credit that you're willing to defend it."

Morhault took in that exchange with some surprise. Apparently, Jyrian had depths to her that he wouldn't have expected from someone who made her way in life as a Questing Hero.

"Do you know, I think we've made one mistake. You've been working with the civil authorities, and we first approached them because Edric knew Beldar and we were going to see him anyway. Now we intend to approach the Meribian government because the assassination plot is more or less a military matter."

The others looked expectantly at him. "So?" Jyrian asked.

"I think I see," said Elia. "You're thinking about the Church, aren't you, Morhault?"

"Exactly. This is a religious matter, after all, since it's Althena's rule the Burning Hand wants to destroy, not just the political situation. Fanatics as a rule annoy me, but consider the number of priests in the extremist wing who would be elated to be turned loose on the one group of heretics they're _allowed_ to burn at the stake. That's so much more demonstrative than a simple hanging, isn't it?"

"Would Althena's priests be any more approachable than the government?" Elia asked after thinking it over.

"I'm not sure. I can safely say that I'm not one of their favorite people," Morhault noted dryly. "Honor is a cardinal virtue, after all."

"So is love."

"Yes, but it wasn't _my_ love. Jyrian, how good are the Magic Guild's relations with the Church?"

"Not Mia Ausa good, but good enough. Whether they're good enough for me to approach the leaders of the Shrine in Nanza, I don't know."

"What we really need," Tabren mused, "is a priest in this group of ours. That would be an unimpeachable witness, and together with Jyrian we'd have enough status to be respected by any authority."

Morhault couldn't help but think that if he'd still been a Lion Knight he would possess virtually the same kind of prestige.

"That's a good idea," he complimented the young man, "and something to keep in mind if we end up infiltrating any more cult activities."

The journey itself proved to be uneventful, even boring. While the mountains of the Nanza Barrier were still home to monster nests, centuries of armed patrols by Meribian guards and vicious defenses by merchant caravans had taught all but the fiercest or hungriest creatures that the major paths were not a source of easy prey. There were still occasional attacks by creatures or bandits, but the majority of travelers passed through the Barrier without incident. Even the weather had cleared and the warm spring sun denied them even the unpleasantness of rain to catch their attention. Only the urgency of their journey kept the four of them from turning it into a lazy country stroll.

When they stopped for the night, Morhault made good on the promise he'd made to himself, inviting Tabren to take a few lessons in swordplay. There was no need for persuasion; the young man leapt at the chance to improve his skills at the hands of someone whose ability he'd seen in action.

The first problem they encountered was the boy's sword. Tabren was a husky young man; although he hadn't filled out completely he would likely grow to be within an inch or two of Morhault's height and be just as broad across the shoulders.

"That shortsword of yours, though, is really no more than an overgrown knife."

"Morhault," Tabren objected, "I've seen dozens of people carry these. It's a standard weapon for cityguards and sailors."

"Also for archers and crossbowmen. It's quite popular as a backup weapon, which is actually how it got started, The shortsword is a relic from centuries, even millennia ago, when the spear was the main combat weapon. Even more than a modern broadsword a spear needs room to use effectively, so if the enemy got in close, or if a warrior threw their spear, they could pull out the shortsword. It is a functional weapon, especially in close quarters like on board ship, but it was never meant to be a main battle arm. It's something you carry for emergencies that's small enough that it won't get in the way of your _real_ fighting. Then there's your body type. If you were small and quick like Jyrian, you'd want to use a faster style favoring speed and movement, but you're built more like me. A shortsword rewards quickness, not brute strength."

Tabren nodded, taking it all in.

"I'm beginning to understand why warriors begin their training at such an early age."

"There are a lot of subtleties in battle. No one weapon is the best for every situation, so a first-rate warrior needs to know several. Plus, there are tactical considerations, especially once battles start getting larger than one-on-one duels."

"So how are you going to teach me properly, without a sword the right size?"

"Practice swords are easy enough to make." He pointed at a hardwood tree growing by the roadside. "A couple of branches off that will do. You don't want to use a real weapon for practice, anyway. Accidents can and do happen, and accidents with edged weapons tend to be messy."

It wasn't quite that easy, but a few strokes of the hatchet and some whittling with Morhault's belt knife soon produced a reasonable facsimile of two blades.

"I'm going to teach you a two-handed style since we don't have any shields. Using a thrusting weapon like a knife or rapier, or a slashing one like a cutlass or saber one-handed is natural, but with something like an axe or broadsword the only reason to leave a hand free is because you're going to hold something in it. Plus, if we keep these lessons as different as possible from shortsword technique you'll be less likely to try a broadsword move while holding a shortsword and get killed for it. A two-handed grip will give you more power for your attacks and present a more solid defense. The one thing you lose is flexibility. You won't get the full range of motion that you would using only one arm, which means you have to be more aware of your flanks."

"I have the sinking feeling that this is going to hurt."

"Bruises are an inevitable part of the learning process. That's why we wear padding during practice. You're going to pick up a few--and if you learn well, so will I. Don't worry, though; we don't start beating each other up right from the start."

"I appreciate that."

"Well, I need to show you some of the basic forms before you start trying to use them, don't I? The point of sparring is to help you integrate your training into battle conditions. That's why people who have experience but no training have holes in their technique--they don't get the opportunity to identify and correct their mistakes."

Tabren grinned.

"In that case, we'd better get started. I don't want to learn the hard way where the holes in my technique are."

As Morhault has anticipated, the young man showed a good deal of promise. As the journey progressed they were able to move up to a bit of sparring, with Tabren borrowing the padded gambeson Morhault used under his mail to protect him from the worst of his mistakes. The ladies found the process extremely amusing, and chimed in with cheers and gibes just as if they'd been at a tournament.

Nanza wasn't all that much farther away from Nota than Kyre was as the dragon flies but the rougher terrain of the Barrier added time to the trip, so it took nearly two weeks before the companions passed through the east gate of the town at the center of the Barrier. Morhault understood from his reading that Nanza had once been nothing more than a bandit camp until the famous Master Mel de Alkirk, the Governor of Meribia in Dragonmaster Alex's time, had taken steps--the kind of steps that involve swinging a large axe--to establish a more permanent settlement to protect travelers. It had been the first step in founding the modern Meribia, not just a powerful trade city but the heart of a budding empire with protectorates in two Zones.

Morhault doubted that Master Mel would even recognize modern Nanza. It had grown steadily over the centuries, beginning with inns and taverns for weary travelers, then shops to resupply caravan supplies, then markets where merchants could exchange goods with each other--albeit at less favorable rates--instead of traveling all the way to their destination, then all the infrastructure needed to support the people who were starting to live there permanently, until modern Nanza was no different from any other thriving trade center except for its location at the junction of three mountain passes.

"So, shall it be Church or State first?" Tabren asked.

"Inn," Morhault stated. "We have gear to take care of, and we can't just demand hospitality from someone. Well, we can demand, but no one will give it to us."

"We can take care of that," Elia offered. "You and Jyrian could go and see whomever you need to while Tabren and I find rooms; then we'll catch up to you."

"I like that idea," Jyrian said.

"I agree," assented Morhault.

"In that case," Jyrian said, "we'll try the Chief Magistrate first, and if that fails go to the Church later." She untied a pouch from her belt and tossed it to Elia. "If that doesn't cover the room cost even at Nanza prices, try setting the innkeeper's hair on fire. Most people aren't very insistent on cheating you once they learn you can call a meteor down on their head."

"I would find that a strong encouragement towards honesty," Morhault remarked.

"Is that really possible, Jyrian?" Tabren asked. "Calling down meteors, I mean."

Jyrian shrugged. "Beats me. I'm not even sure what element it would be--fire, earth, maybe even air."

Tabren looked at her quizzically. "Element?"

"Elemental magic--like we were talking about back in Nota before we got distracted by fighting the cultists. Only the Goddess can just toss magic around in its raw state. We mortals have to conjure it up in the form of elements, shaped to a particular affinity with natural forces, so that our spirits can handle them. Really skilled magicians can dance around the edges of it with what we call 'mystic' spells, but those don't so much affect raw magic as they affect the way people interact with magic. Most magicians, though, can only use one or two forms of elemental magic that they have a personal affinity towards. I'm water, for example, and Elia is fire." She stopped and looked intently at Tabren, as if searching for signs of comprehension. "Is any of this making sense, or am I just babbling?"

"Um, sort of. Is this like that hill thing?"

Jyrian groaned.

"Teaching is so not my strong suit. I'd rather be _doing_ things instead of trying to explain them."

"Tabren, do you remember how Morhault explained that different body types could better use different styles of fighting?" Elia asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, it's the same with magic. Different types of minds are suited to different kinds of magic. And just like you can exercise and train to get better at fighting, you can study and practice to get better at magic, but you'll always be best at certain kinds of fighting or magic no matter how much you work because of what kind of body or mind you have."

"That's it, Elia, from now on, _you_ handle the magic lectures," Jyrian said with a relieved grin.

The blue-haired girl blushed.

"I would, but I didn't know that I knew it until you started talking about it. I think it's because I can't remember my past, so I can't remember what it is that I've studied. It's only when a topic comes up that I realize that I either do or don't know about it."

"That's awful," Jyrian said with feeling.

"Do they call you Jyrian Mageborn because your, um, affinity for magic is so strong?"

"No, it's because whenever I'd throw a crying fit as a baby icicles would grow on my crib. I'm actually from Vane--my parents are a tailor and a seamstress--so they took it in stride, but it impresses the bards so they hung that silly label on me."

"I thought humans needed spells to cast magic," Tabren said.

Jyrian grinned.

"Odds are, I had a great-grandparent or so who was one of the magic race. It isn't uncommon at all in Vane, and the fact that I can call up enough power to put out a pipe without a spell doesn't make me any better or stronger at actual magic, either--but you can't tell that to epic writers. The mageborn bit is an absolute favorite of theirs."

A loud voice suddenly interrupted their discussion.

"Hey, now! Let's be moving along, here!"


	15. Adventurers at the Gate

All four of the travelers turned to face an unshaven, bleary-eyed man in the studded leather armor and red cloak of a Nanzan watchman. The Watch represented the law inside the town gates, while the Barrier Guard (which for obvious economic reasons tended to get the dragon's share of equipment, training, and financing) handled matters outside. This armsman carried the typical weapons of the watch, a spear in his hand and a shortsword buckled at his waist.

"Is something wrong, Watchman?" Morhault asked.

"Yer blocking the street. If yer wants ter stand around an' talk, then git outer the way."

"Well, I daresay we're always willing to comply with the law. Perhaps, however, you might assist us? My friends and I are new to Nanza, and we were just discussing where we might find the Chief Magistrate's offices. Might you be kind enough to direct us?"

At the mention of his ultimate superior's name, the watchman swallowed nervously.

"Yer goes up this street ter the Lower Market, then take Arrow Street north past the Sanctuary. The court hall an' his residence an' the offices are all attached."

Morhault smiled urbanely.

"Thank you, Watchman. Ladies, Tabren, shall we be off, and cease troubling this good man."

Jyrian managed, with effort, to keep a straight face for over a hundred feet without laughing.

"Oh, Morhault, that was _priceless_. You sounded just like one of those overbred twits!"

"I spent a year with the Meribian army in the western swamps near Lann. Most of the officers were aristocrats, and about half insisted on talking like they were in someone's solar for afternoon tea. A number of us got fairly good at imitating them."

"No doubt to the general amusement of the troops."

"Soldiers mocking their superior officers? Jyrian, how could you suggest such a thing?" He turned his head to look at Tabren. "Did you see what the watchman was using?" he asked the boy.

"Spear and shortsword," Tabren said. "I actually did believe you without the example."

"Better proof than doubts," the fallen knight quoted. Tabren just rolled his eyes. "All right, you two had better get along to the inn, then. You know where we'll be?"

"Good luck," Elia wished them. Tabren looked like he wanted to complain about having to lug Morhault's pack, but since Elia wasn't whining about Jyrian's, he kept his mouth shut. There was nothing that kept a teenage boy from complaining like work better than having a pretty girl do the same job cheerfully.

The group separated, and Morhault and Jyrian walked along, following the watchman's directions. Like Nota, Nanza had been built on trade, but the marketplaces seemed fairly simple, and there was nowhere near as wide a variety of goods on display. If anything, the Lower Market wasn't even as big and diverse as the Harbor Market in Kyre, and the comparison confused Morhault for a moment until he realized that although Nanza was a major waypoint for land travel, much of the actual business done there was in cargo shipments and wagonloads exchanged among merchant houses, not in the markets and shops of its relatively small population.

The local shrine to Althena, the Nanza Sanctuary, was a towering edifice, its spire rearing up well above the two- and three-story buildings around it. The Chief Magistrate's compound was nowhere near so high but equally impressive, a country manor house made of light gray stone transplanted into the midst of the town. It was not the possession of any one family, Morhault judged, but an official residence where the Governor's local viceroy lived and worked. The estate was surrounded by a high iron fence with a stone gatehouse; on one side of the gate the Meribian crest was prominently displayed and on the other was a plaque confirming that the mansion was indeed that of the Chief Magistrate of Nanza. The gates were open, but two watchmen stood outside, showing a clean-cut, professional air that the one in the street had definitely lacked. Jyrian approached them and displayed her Guild badge.

"Master Jyrian of the Magic Guild of Vane to see the Chief Magistrate."

"Go on in," a watchman stated after giving the badge a look.

A curving drive led up to the main door of the building. More guards were inside, and functionaries scuttled to and fro through the halls, usually with sheafs of paper fluttering in their hands. Jyrian and Morhault were escorted to a waiting room on the ground floor, where an officious little man whose balding pate looked like a tonsure did not exactly jump for joy at meeting them.

"Absolutely not!" he declared huffily when Jyrian repeated her request to see the Chief Magistrate. "Magistrate Carras is extremely busy, and he cannot take time out from his schedule to meet with the unexpected emissary of a minor organization."

"Minor?" mused the fallen knight. Meribia, he had to admit, was the most civilized of Lunar's cities, the richest economically, the most advanced in a variety of areas of knowledge, and the most politically influential. The problem was, many Meribians were all too aware of it.

Jyrian glared at the pompous clerk.

"Didn't you ever hear the saying that unexpected messengers are the most important?"

"Should your business be sufficiently urgent, then it should be important enough for you to conduct it with appropriate protocol and make the time to schedule an appointment in advance. I believe that the Chief Magistrate has a hour free next Gold day."

"My business directly concerns the safety of the Governor. I would think _that_ would be sufficiently important to command someone's immediate attention."

The bureaucrat rolled his eyes.

"You cannot imagine how many times I've heard that before. Why is it that every unimportant person who feels their petty problems simply cannot wait until a proper time must fall back on the same tired excuses as to why they must be treated with special deference? Were I to make time for every threat to the Governor, life and death affair, or matter vital to Meribian security alleged by visitors to this office, Magistrate Carras would be unable to fulfill the day-to-day responsibilities of his job."

"I'm beginning to see why it was so easy to get past the gateguards," Morhault observed.

Jyrian rested her hand on the hilt of her rapier.

"Why should they exert themselves when they can get this officious little worm to do it for them?" she said. "I'm tempted to create a new opening for the position of magistrate's clerk."

"Threats of violence will not help you," the balding man replied. "At one touch of a button under my desk, a dozen armsmen will fill this room. The attempted murder of civil servants is not well regarded as a scheduling technique in the Meribian protectorates, unlike in such barbaric regions as you no doubt hail from." Incredibly, he gave no indication that any part of his statement was intended as laconic wit.

"Nor will stubbornness help you. We're bringing word of an assassination plot directed against the Governor and his entourage, which as I'm sure you know might be en route to Nanza even as we speak."

"As I have already stated, pleading urgency will not avail you. You do not possess the requisite status to command an immediate audience out of hand; neither do you have the correct documentation stating that you represent such an authority. If you do in fact carry the information you claim to possess--a highly doubtful assertion--then it must be delivered through proper channels. Indeed, that is why such channels exist."

"And here I thought it was to provide jobs for petty bureaucrats incapable of useful labor," Jyrian said.

Morhault lightly laid a hand on her arm. Ten years as an outcast had, of nothing else, helped him build up a thick skin against being insulted and lorded over. More than likely, a professional Epic Hero like Jyrian was _not_ used to being brushed off like she was nothing and _definitely_ not used to having her word doubted.

"The two of you could scream insults at each other until your faces turn as blue as Elia's hair, but it won't get us through that door." The clerk was like a block of stone. Most any minor official was that way; without the power to make decisions their lives became entirely defined by a small set of rules and regulations, so they clung to those rules as if they were the words of the Goddess.

"You're right," Jyrian said with a sigh. "We've tried reason, we've tried threats, I'm not going to use force against innocent watchmen, and I'm not rich enough to try bribery. Let's go see if the Church is willing to take up arms against heresy and save a Governor in the process."

Since they had passed the Sanctuary on the way to the Chief Magistrate's mansion, Morhault and Jyrian didn't have to ask directions. Even better luck was that they met Elia and Tabren on the way there.

"We're staying at the Wayward Hind," the young man reported. "Two rooms, meals included, at ten silver a day each. It's not so large as the Red Gryphon, but it's clean. Did you two have any luck with the Chief Magistrate?"

"We didn't get to see him," Jyrian groused. "His clerk decided that we weren't illustrious enough to merit His Honor's immediate attention."

Elia's eyes widened.

"That can't be right! I mean, not when the life of the Governor and the threat of war are at stake."

"Apparently, melodrama is the last resort of people with a desperate need to be noticed," Morhault explained laconically. "All sorts of time-wasters use that ploy to try and see the Chief Magistrate. Presumably he's gotten so tired of hearing, 'Pardon my white lie, but I just _had_ to see you...' that he's given a general order to disregard all supposed assassination plots. The clerk as good as told us that if that really was our business we should report it to the Watch like any other crime."

"It's not a ploy, though," Elia protested. "We really do have evidence of a plot."

"True, but it's expecting a bit much from a petty official for him to sort out one truthful group from the packs of liars."

Jyrian snorted again. The clerk seemed to bring that out in her. "It shouldn't be," she declared. "Once I started providing him with details, he should have realized that it wasn't just a story. What does he think the Magic Guild would want that would have been such a waste of time, anyway?"

"Actually," the fallen knight pointed out, echoing his earlier thoughts, "he wasn't _thinking_ at all, just blindly following a rule."

Or, he considered, it might be that the Chief Magistrate was the Nanzan equivalent to Syrek in Nota, the Burning Hand's local plant in government. In that case, the apparent order to keep out reports of any alleged assassination scheme might not be so innocent after all. Morhault filed that thought away in the back of his mind for future reference.

"Would going to the Watch work?" Tabren asked.

"Possibly," Jyrian told him. "It all depends on how soon the Governor's entourage reaches the ambush spot, wherever that is, and how long it would take the Watch to process the report and put it into the hands of someone both willing and capable of acting on it. We'll do it as a last resort if we have to, but since we really aren't sure of the timeframe, I'd prefer to find someone who can take immediate action."

"So we're going to try the High Priest of Nanza now?"

"That's right."

One advantage to approaching a religious leader was that Althena's shrines remained open all day and night for the benefit of those who might need to worship. The Goddess did not limit herself to helping people during regular business hours. Getting in the door was merely a matter of walking through the high, arched portal. The towering foyer's stone walls were carved with ornate gargoyles leering down at the visitors, and the parquet floor's bright polish reflected the light from dozens of flickering candles.

"The frescoes remind me of the ones in the chapel at the Citadel of the Lion," Morhault mused, referring to the stronghold of his former order. "I never did understand why all those ugly creatures were such a fad in religious art a hundred and fifty years ago."

"I think they're creepy," Elia said. "Are they supposed to be demons or monsters from the Vile Tribe?"

"Actually, I think they're supposed to scare off demons and evil spirits. That's why they look so fierce."

"In my experience," Jyrian supplied, "humans are much more likely to be scared of stone carvings than monsters are. We have imagination; they don't." She looked through the main arch into the Sanctuary's sanctuary. "Now, that's more my idea of religious art."

"Oh, how pretty!" Elia exclaimed. Morhault had to admit that the twenty-foot-tall stained glass windows depicting the Goddess and the Four Dragons were impressive, especially backlit as they were by the afternoon sun. The golden crescent in Althena's arms glowed like molten metal, and the sea-foam from which the Blue Dragon rose was a lustrous aquamarine that sparkled like the ocean beneath a sunny sky. The entire array seemed to be made up of shimmering gemstones; there was good reason for the rapt expression on the blue-haired girl's face. In fact, Morhault felt a bit like that himself.

By that time, the conversation had gone on long enough to catch the attention of a fresh-faced young initiate only a few years older than Tabren.

"May I be of some assistance?"

"Yes, if you can direct us to the High Priest's office," Jyrian asked, skipping right over the issue of asking for permission.

"Certainly; it's that way, around the corner and to the back," the initiate replied, pointing to a side door. "The left door goes to our offices, the right to our living quarters."

"Thank you."

A narrow ribbon of carpet ran down the center of the paneled corridor in order to protect the parquet from being scratched by the tread of countless feet. The corridor led up to two doors set side by side.

"I guess this is it," Jyrian said, and knocked.

"Come in."

The left door opened on a luxurious reception room more fitted to a noble's manor than church. It was a pointed reminder of the wealth that flowed through Nanza; perhaps the Sanctuary had investments with local merchant houses as well as the usual donations and tithes. A bearded man in a blue-trimmed white robe sat behind a large mahogany desk.

"May I help you?" he asked.

Jyrian displayed her guild badge.

"I am Master Jyrian of the Magic Guild of Vane, and I have important information for the High Priest."

The bearded secretary frowned, and Morhault began to feel a strong sense of deja vu.

"I am afraid that the High Priestess is very busy. May I inquire as to the nature of this information?"

"We've learned that the Burning Hand plans to assassinate the Governor of Meribia on his tour of the protectorates and foment a war with Nota," she told him bluntly. There was no real reason to be circumspect, after all.

A worried light came into the priest's eyes, and he rose from his seat. "I think it's best if the High Priestess decides this. If you'll pardon me?" He went into the back office.

"Well, that's something," Morhault commented. "At least this time it's not the flunky making the decisions."

"Which won't necessarily change the result," Jyrian remarked sourly.

"Do you realize, you may actually be more cynical than I am?"

The conversation between prelate and secretary took less than a minute. The door opened again and the bearded priest emerged.

"Please go in; High Priestess Ailera is very interested in speaking with you."

"See?" Morhault told Jyrian. "You should trust the Goddess to give wisdom to her church."


	16. Church and State

"It would probably be best if you began by introducing yourselves, so we know where we stand," Ailera stated. "Your company seems to be something of a mixed bag."

"A mixed...?" Elia murmured, puzzled.

"It's a merchant's expression, meaning a selection of dissimilar goods," Morhault explained. "I think it suits us nicely."

The High Priestess of the Nanza Sanctuary was a red-haired woman in her late forties with aristocratic features. Her skin was all but unlined, but dull gray streaks were beginning to show among the shoulder-length fall of scarlet. She wore the typical hooded white robe that was the universal raiment of the clergy, but with gold trim to indicate her greater rank, while an elaborate moon pendant set with four jewels hung from a silver chain against her breast.

Jyrian introduced herself. Her name did not pass unnoticed.

"More popularly known as Jyrian Mageborn, I think?"

"Some have called me that, usually minstrels whose literary sensibilities run screaming from the new and imaginative."

"The loss of anonymity is often the price of success in one's profession," Ailera said in an almost motherly tone. Then again, given her age and the wedding ring on her slim, tapering hand, she probably _was_ a mother.

"Annoying, but true. This is Morhault, a mercenary soldier."

The Prelate's eyes narrowed in recognition of the name.

"I appear to have been visited by people of reputation."

"How nice to be remembered," Morhault said laconically. Jyrian gave him a look that suggested that she would appreciate it if he kept his clever remarks to himself for the nonce.

"The lady of the unusual hair is Elia, also a magician, although not of the Magic Guild, and the young man is Tabren from the town of Kyre, who's seeking his first adventure and so far has found quite a bit of it."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady," he said with typical directness.

"For me as well. So, it seems that my description of your group was more apt than flippant. I'm Ailera Palmadan, High Priestess of Althena for Nanza, though you've probably figured that out already from the subtle clues my staff has been providing--introductions and so on."

Morhault grinned. He was going to like this aristocratic churchwoman. It came as no surprise to him that she was a Meribian noble; the church had always been a common career choice for the younger children of such families, who were given an excellent education and training in leadership and administration but were left without an inheritance as each House passed to a single heir to keep its holdings intact. Much of the church hierarchy came from this otherwise untapped pool of talent.

"Have a seat, and we can get down to cases," she continued, indicating several comfortable chairs facing the desk. Jyrian, Elia, and Tabren sat; Morhault did not.

"If you don't mind, Lady Ailera, I'd just as well stand. Chain mail is useful stuff, but sitting on it is less than comfortable, and it's hard on the cushions."

"As you like. I'm more concerned with this tale of heresy and assassination you bring."

"Which is more than I can say for the Chief Magistrate," Jyrian groused, still miffed.

"Oh?"

"His clerk didn't let us through the door."

Ailera curled her lip derisively.

"Ah, that makes more sense. Regeldas is a self-important little twit." Apparently the High Priestess considered honesty a more elevated virtue than forgiveness.

"That was more or less the impression we formed of him, Lady Ailera," observed Morhault. "He seemed more interested in protecting his employer's schedule than the Governor."

"So how is the Governor in danger?"

"It's an ambush plot," Jyrian explained. "The Burning Hand has hired mercenaries and dressed them as Notan soldiers--in authentic uniforms obtained by a cult member in Nota's government. Somewhere on the Governor's tour of the protectorates, probably in the Barrier, the mercenaries will attack."

"Then the plan is actually to incite a war between Meribia and Nota?" Ailera grasped the point immediately.

"While removing the leaders of both cities so cult members can attempt to assume power."

The High Priestess looked appropriately worried at that.

"This means that they already have important ministers of government and members of the nobility among the Pyre Lord's worshippers. Desperate people faced with grinding poverty or ambitious warlords and criminals, yes, but I cannot conceive of why successful, respected men and women would cast their lot with the Vile Tribe."

"Ambition, Lady Ailera," Morhault said with a shrug. "Some people aren't satisfied with less than everything."

"Another point," Jyrian noted. "From what we heard, it was the cult's help that got Syrek into his current position. That would be their best strategy, to find relatively competent but low-ranking people with too much ambition, and help them rise. It puts the puppet somewhere useful and binds him more tightly to the cult."

Ailera nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

"Yes, I see what you mean. What you said leads right into the details, though. Who is this Syrek, and how did you learn what you know?"

Jyrian glanced over at Morhault. "You'd better tell the story; I don't have your gift for narration."

As it turned out, they both told it, with Jyrian providing a different perspective as well as what had happened when they'd been separated.

"Did Syrek really call this Geldoth 'your lordship'?" Ailera asked when they were done.

"Yes, though I can't imagine what he claims to be a lord of."

"The Vile Tribe," Ailera told him.

"I'm not quite sure I understand," Morhault admitted.

"It has to do with how the cult sees the world. Their purpose is to overthrow the Goddess's order. The leader of the Vile Tribe would then become the ultimate leader of all Lunar, combining spiritual and temporal authority."

"The phrase 'Magic Emperor' comes to mind."

"Indeed. Therefore, high-ranking cult priests are considered princes and lords in this order-they-wish-to-come of theirs." Ailera pursed her lips. "I _believe_ the formal rank is called Disciple, but I may be wrong. The church tries to learn what it can, but..."

"It sounds a bit pretentious," Jyrian commented.

"True, but what can you expect? These people make a virtue out of naked ambition and are forced to slink around in the shadows like thieves. They'll do whatever they can to make themselves feel important. Awarding someone a fancy title gives a person a feeling of importance without having to give them any real power."

"That's very insightful, Morhault," Ailera commended him.

Morhault shrugged.

"It isn't all that different from the Meribian aristocracy. There's no functional difference between the Houses and any long-established merchant family from Saith or Nota. The Ramus family has more money than any of them and three hundred years of history behind it right there in Meribia itself. Yet the Houses are, well, Houses and not just families."

Since Ailera herself was from a noble family, she looked less than pleased at the renegade's analogy, but she didn't contradict him. He hadn't meant to be personally insulting, so he was glad the High Priestess appreciated his point.

"How important is it that Geldoth is a disciple instead of an ordinary priest, Lady Ailera?" Elia changed the subject.

"I really can't say. It depends on how widespread the Burning Hand has become. He might be involved as a high authority supervising the cult's major operation, or he just might not have any underpriests to delegate his plans to."

"If he's that high-ranking, maybe he's one of the Vile Tribe," Tabren suggested. "That could explain how he teleported away."

"Then how does the orb figure in?" Jyrian wondered. "It took time for him to fish it out of his robes, time that could have gotten him killed."

"Maybe that's _how_ they teleport?"

"I don't think that's it, Tabren."

"Why not, Elia?"

"It isn't a wholly unsupported assumption," Ailera contributed.

"I know, but...it just doesn't _feel_ right," Elia insisted. "I don't think the Vile Tribe need any kind of external focus to manipulate magic."

"Do you mean that you just don't like the sound of it?" Morhault asked. "Or is this one of those times when you've remembered something but the whole picture hasn't come to you yet?"

Elia nodded.

"That's it. That's just what it feels like. I'm sure that the Vile Tribe doesn't make use of items to help them manipulate magic, but I don't know why I feel that way."

Jyrian sighed.

"You're probably right. The Vile Tribe's ability is very similar to the magic race's, and I've never heard of them having items that work to amplify that particular ability."

"Don't completely discard it just yet," Morhault told her. "Since we don't know where Elia's knowledge originally comes from, we can't be certain as to its accuracy. She might have made an exhaustive study of the Vile Tribe and its magical abilities, or she might have just read a book that happened to be completely wrong."

"I hadn't thought of that," Elia said in a very small voice. Morhault's heart sank as he saw her obvious distress.

"I didn't mean it as a slur against you, Elia," he told her. "It's just a fact of life. Every one of us thinks or believes _something_, maybe a lot of somethings, that's utter hogwash."

"I know," Elia said, tears filling her eyes. "It's not that, really. It just brings home to me what I've lost. I believe things, but I can't be sure why, or how I learned them. I can't even defend my beliefs, because I don't have a past. All I have are a few loose, unconnected ideas that surface at random!"

"Don't worry, Elia," Tabren said, laying his hand on hers. "We'll find a way to get your memory back, I promise!"

Elia turned her hand almost unconsciously to clasp the young man's, and smiled gratefully at him.

"You're so kind," she said, then turned and added, "All of you are, to put up with me. I _hate_ to be a burden on you like that."

"Anyone who can start fires with sodden wood is no burden on any overland journey," Morhault declared. "I can speak with years of experience with knight-errantry, campaigning, and caravan-guarding."

Elia smiled wanly.

"That's me, the walking tinderbox."

"That's not what we mean and you know it," Jyrian snapped. "If we thought that you were an annoyance or a liability we'd have said so. This is moderately important business we're on, and I for one wouldn't put two cities at risk just because I felt sorry or responsible for you. I'm not even sure Morhault would, what with it being the Burning Hand involved rather than ordinary politics. Frankly, Elia, you have too many real problems to go around worrying about fake ones. Besides, Morhault gives our little group all the self-pity it needs."

"These legendary heroes aren't shy about speaking their minds, are they?" the fallen knight observed to Ailera.

"It's all right," Elia said. "I understand where she's coming from."

"Good," Jyrian said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm trying my best to cut down on the number of cliches in my life and you're enough of one as it is without adding the oh-I'm-so-useless routine."

Elia couldn't help but laugh at that, and Jyrian grinned back at her.

"If that's settled, would it be possible to get back to business?" Ailera inquired mildly.

"There's not much left to tell. Edric stayed in Nota to lay what we knew before their authorities, while we came here to see if we could head off the ambush."

"I see. You've been considering the situation for some time; have you thought of any ideas for dealing with it? Besides the obvious course of saving Governor Olberad, I mean."

"Actually, saving the Governor isn't our highest priority," Jyrian said.

"Oh?"

"The most important thing is to make sure that as many influential and reputable people in authority know about the plot. The whole point of Geldoth's scheme is to foment a war. Periods of strife are always the best time for usurpers to seize power. Even if the Governor is killed, if Meribia knows that the Burning Hand is responsible it won't attack Nota, and that will thrust a spoke in Geldoth's wheel. Once we're assured of that, we can try to protect the Governor and stamp out the cult's forces."

"You have thought this through," Ailera said approvingly. "I can't help but agree, Master Jyrian. The first step, of course, is to inform Chief Magistrate Carras. Then, we can mobilize the forces of Church and State together and deal with this infestation in our midst. I'm sure Governor Olberad will be interested in finding out which of his court are kneeling at the Pyre Lord's altar, as well." She rose from her seat. "Speaking as a priestess of Althena, I believe that the Chief Magistrate's clerk is in dire need of instruction in humility. Shall we go and enlighten his soul, my friends?"

Morhault grinned broadly. He _definitely_ liked this woman.

-X X X-

It was Jyrian's turn to grin when they returned to the reception office in the Chief Magistrate's mansion.

"You again?" Regeldas sneered, his lip curling in an uncharacteristic expression of contempt.

Ailera stepped out to the front of the group. "Pay attention, Regeldas. I need to see Halan."

"Lady Ailera, the Chief Magistrate is meeting with the representatives of the major merchant houses and cannot be disturbed," the clerk replied, his usual mask of emotionless calm slipping back into place.

"This is important. The traders can wait."

"Lady Ailera!"

Ailera wasted no further time on argument, but strode directly for the door. Regeldas hopped up, barely in time to block her path.

"Morhault, would you get this man out of my way?"

"You cannot just force your way into the Chief Magistrate's office!" Regaldas declared. Secure that the Goddess's authority was with him, Morhault corrected the bureaucrat's beliefs by seizing him by the front of the robe and lifting the sputtering man aside bodily.

"You're lucky, Morhault," Jyrian said. "If I want to move someone against their will I usually have to hurt them."

Morhault deposited Regeldas in one of the chairs.

"It's easier to bully people with brute strength than with finesse," he agreed.

"I'll...I'll call the guards!" Regeldas protested.

"You do that," Ailera told him. "I could use a good laugh, and their reaction when you tell them to arrest the High Priestess of the Nanza Sanctuary should be extremely amusing." She turned the doorknob and pushed to reveal a large room laid out as a conference chamber, with a single long table in the center. Bookcases, expensive tapestries, and a well-stocked sideboard marched along the walls, and the carpet covering the floor was luxuriant. Five men and women sat along the sides of the table dressed in fine silks and expensive jewelry, but it was the man at the head of the table whom Morhault looked at.

Halan Carras, Chief Magistrate of Nanza, was a tall, lean man of about fifty. He was strikingly handsome, with ash-blond hair and knowing blue eyes that conveyed intelligence, wisdom, and good humor, and unlike the merchants at his table he dressed simply in smoke-gray with his only adornments a wedding ring on one hand, a family signet on the other, and his golden chain of office around his neck. He was in no way what the travelers had expected; Morhault had been envisioning an overfed, overdressed aristocrat caught up in his own high opinion of himself instead of this sober intellectual.

"High Priestess Ailera," Halan observed. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"I need to talk to you, Halan. It's absolutely vital, concerning the security of Meribia as well as church affairs."

The Chief Magistrate nodded. "Very well." He turned to the others at the table and said, "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but as you can hear more pressing affairs have come up. I'll schedule additional time to finish our discussions as soon as possible and let you know."

The merchants looked alternately understanding, surly, and offended in accordance with their individual natures, but they all rose and filed out of the room. Their exit was lent a comic touch by Regeldas, who was trying to get in but was blocked off by the flow of bodies until the last merchant was gone. Only then was he able to get into the room, the very picture of wounded pride.

"I'm sorry, Your Honor, but these people forced their way inside," he announced huffily.

Halan rose a curious eyebrow. "Did you, Ailera? I wondered what had put those storm clouds in your expression."

"Merely my own way of paying homage to the White Dragon. This is Jyrian from the Magic Guild of Vane--yes, _that_ Jyrian--and she and her companions brought a rather intriguing story to me, concerning an attempt that will be made to kill the Governor and plunge Meribia into a bloody war with Nota."

Halan's reply was directed to Jyrian rather than the High Priestess.

"It's an honor to meet you, Master Jyrian, but I am surprised that you didn't bring news of this to me rather than Lady Ailera."

"We did. We were informed that it wasn't sufficiently important to disturb you over, and that we were most likely lying in order to subvert the appointment procedure."

"I see," he remarked. "So, you laid your story before Ailera, and having cloaked yourself in religious authority, came back and pushed your way in."

"Essentially."

The Chief Magistrate turned his calm gaze on his clerk.

"Regeldas, was there a particular reason you decided I was too busy to deal with a national crisis?"

"Your Honor, if I was to grant an immediate audience to everyone who claims to have an urgent problem, you would be inundated with spurious requests and petty complaints."

"Perhaps from random strangers, but _Jyrian Mageborn_? Even if somehow the significance of her name escaped you, she is from the Magic Guild. Worse yet, you repeated the mistake for Ailera, who is not only a High Priestess of the Goddess, but a personal friend? You are supposed to be able to exercise your own sound judgment in your position. We _will_ speak of this later," he declared in a voice that suggested Regeldas was about to become chief clerk for filing sanitation reports.

"Y-yes, Your Honor," Regeldas said, shamefaced, and slipped out the door.

"Well, now that my administrative problems are dealt with, why don't we move on to the reason you're all here? I believe there was some mention of a plot to kill Governor Olberad?"


	17. Fashion and Fletchings

Considering how many times Tabren had heard the story of Geldoth's plot to foment a war between Meribia and Nota, he was extremely happy when Jyrian suggested that he and Elia might not want to sit through the whole thing again. Elia was more dubious, but then she was older than he was.

"Are you sure that we shouldn't stay there?"

Tabren shook his head forcefully.

"Absolutely sure. There's no _way_ we should have to sit through that. Leave the strategy planning to the people who are getting paid for it. I may be new to the adventuring life, but I've picked up that much. Besides, Morhault and Jyrian will tell us what they decide to do, and we won't have to sit through the boring parts."

Elia giggled at his comment. She had a pleasant laugh, what Tabren thought of as a lady's laugh, not the brainless squeal of the taproom girls--though he supposed a highborn featherwit might squeal just as badly. It was just that he didn't know any ladies besides Elia and now High Priestess Ailera.

"It was kind of Chief Magistrate Carras to offer us the hospitality of his home," she said. "Lady Ailera said he has a wonderful library."

"You like to read, then?"

"Oh, yes, I--" She stopped and blinked in momentary confusion. "Why, that's true. I hadn't realized that before. Thank you, Tabren." She smiled kindly at him, and her face seemed to light up.

"It's another fact about your past."

"Yes, though I suppose that it only stands to reason, since I am a magician. Still, you can't imagine how good it feels to actually _remember_. I can feel the binding under my fingertips, see the words on the page and the illuminations of ancient works, even smell the dust of some book that hasn't been touched in decades." Elia smiled at him again, but this time it was thin and a little sad. "I suppose with all your memories intact, you can't really understand what I mean."

"No, I guess not," Tabren admitted.

"It's all right, though. Every time I learn something more about myself, it gives me hope that someday I'll remember it all."

Tabren wondered which was worse, not being able to remember things or not knowing who one was? Would it make things easier for Elia if she learned about her life but still couldn't remember any of it? He wanted to ask her, but was afraid the question would just cause her more pain, so he remained silent.

"The library was supposed to be down this hall, right?" he instead asked to change the subject.

"I think so, unless we've gotten turned around somehow. Oh, yes, there it is; those must be the double doors he mentioned."

Tabren opened the door. Just as he did, there was a low-pitched, metallic twang, and something whipped through the air past his ear to bury itself in the wall behind him. A wisp of Elia's hair fluttered down to the floor while they stared, wide-eyed, and the young man holding a crossbow.

"Dear me, what are the two of you doing there?" he asked, his curiosity evident. "It's very dangerous, you know."

Tabren glanced at the sturdy target mounted on the inside of the door.

"We didn't exactly expect to be walking into an archery range."

"Oh? Oh yes, quite."

"Why are you shooting arrows in the library?" Elia asked.

"Bolts," he corrected absently. "Crossbow arrows are called bolts, and I was shooting them here because it's the longest room in the house. I needed to see if the modified sights were accurate," he said as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "Come to think of it, I should have shot off a fixed stand, so I could make an exact measurement." He blinked once and cocked his head to one side. "Do I know you?"

The young man looked to be in his early twenties, perhaps a year or two older than Elia, and wore clothing similar in style to Jyrian's: white shirt, buff breeches, waistcoat, and boots, but without the simplicity she favored. The shirt was of the finest linen, the waistcoat an unusual shade of purple and embroidered in gold, the boots polished to such a high gloss Tabren swore he could see his face in them, and the cravat around the man's neck was held in place by a gaudy stickpin set with a cluster of diamonds. His blond hair was tied back in a queue with a bit of white ribbon, and his eyes had an oddly distorted look to them. Even Tabren, unfamiliar as he was with the upper class and Meribian customs, knew him at once for a fop, a dandy, a Young Gentleman of Fashion.

"I'm fairly certain you don't," Tabren replied dryly.

"We're guests of Chief Magistrate Carras," Elia added. "He said we might look through his library."

"Please come in, then." His gaze narrowed as he looked at Elia. "You don't have your Mama with you, do you?"

"No--do you know her?" she replied with sudden eagerness.

"Althena's tears, no. I don't even know you, so how would I know your Mama? Unless I know her but don't know that I know her because I'm thinking of someone else."

Elia's face fell.

"So why did you ask if her mother was with us?" Tabren hazarded a question.

"I'm not looking to be married off just yet."

"Married off?"

"Well, a girl wouldn't be sending out lures for a husband if she didn't have her Mama along to make sure it's all done up right, so now that I know she isn't setting her cap for me then I'm sure we'll get along famously."

Tabren glanced over at Elia.

"I think I almost followed that." He turned back to the blond man. "I'm Tabren, and this is Elia."

"Well met. I'm Deane Carras."

"Carras? Are you related to the Chief Magistrate?"

"Oh, of course; he's my father. I wouldn't be firing off my new crossbow in someone _else's_ home. Not at all the thing."

"While it _is_ proper to shoot at your _own_ guests?"

"Oh, now, really, that _was_ an accident, and I did apologize."

Elia and Tabren shook their heads in unison.

"I didn't?"

They shook their heads again.

"Dear me, that was impolite, wasn't it? No wonder you seem put out. I'm quite sorry; I didn't mean to hit anyone just yet. This is only an experimental model."

He held up the crossbow, which had a strange, boxlike structure on top of it. In spite of himself, Tabren was intrigued.

"What's new about it?" he asked.

"Well, as I'm sure you know, the crossbow is quite superior to an ordinary hunting bow or even one of those curious composite bows used by the Prairie Tribe in terms of range and power. A crossbow bolt will punch right through chain mail at any respectable distance and even will pierce plate at close range, while normal arrows bounce right off. Plus, almost anyone can pick up a crossbow and have a respectable chance of hitting their target without all the bothersome training and practice skilled archery requires. It's really quite a marvelous invention. It has, however, one flaw, in that it takes too long to recock and reload while a common archer can be emptying a quiver in a trice. So, I invented this." He tapped the boxy structure on top of the bow. "This contains ten bolts, and when this lever here is pulled to recock the bowstring, it also automatically feeds a bolt into place, enabling much more rapid fire. I've just about got the problem of the sights worked out as well. The magazine--that's what I've named the box--just gets in the way, you see."

"How clever!" Elia clapped her hands enthusiastically.

"Does it really work?" Tabren asked dubiously.

Deane's face fell.

"You don't believe me, I suppose. People don't, as a rule. About my inventions, I mean, not that my _word_ isn't good or anything like _that_." His expression brightened again almost at once. "Oh, I say! Would you like me to demonstrate it for you? Then you could see for yourselves."

"Oh, yes," Elia agreed at once. "Perhaps you should lock the library door first, though."

"Just in case someone else comes along," Tabren added. "Though it might be a good test of how your bow works on humans."

Elia gave him a look.

"Morhault is obviously being a bad influence on you."

"Well, he is a notorious villain."

Deane closed and locked the door, then crossed the room and took up an archer's stance. Tabren and Elia stepped well back out of the way.

"Good luck!" Elia called.

Deane fired. The twang of the metal bowstring and the thunk of the bolt imbedding itself into the target were almost simultaneous. Even more amazing, though, was the way he quickly ratcheted another bolt into place and sent it to follow the first. Deane fired again and again, until he had exhausted the magazine in well under two minutes. Each shot had hit the target; six were bullseyes. Elia applauded again, and this time Tabren joined in.

"That's really incredible," he enthused.

"I do wish there was some way to do this for an arbalest," Deane noted, "but the bow arms require too much force to crank back for a magazine system to really be of use. Still, I think this light model should work very well in battle if the sights function properly." He looked down towards the target. "Oh, I say, that's not half bad, is it?"

"You're an excellent shot, Deane," Elia complimented him.

"Thank you. I've always had an affinity for crossbows. They're a perfect example of mechanical science being put to practical use. Papa has never really understood the beauty of clockwork machines. Then again, perhaps it's only that we're different at heart, as he never seems to favor my taste in waistcoats, either."

"He's half right," Tabren observed, noting the golden gryphons embroidered on the bright purple cloth. Deane might have had mechanical aptitude and good aim, but in the boy's opinion his taste in clothing left much to be desired. Fashion sense, for example.

Deane gave Tabren no notice, instead turning to Elia.

"Speaking of fashion, my lady, that is an absolutely exquisite shade you've achieved. My sister would just burn up with jealousy to see it. How ever did you achieve it? Oh," he suddenly exclaimed, "of course, you wouldn't want to give away your beauty secrets. Do forgive me."

Elia and Tabren both broke out laughing; they couldn't help themselves.

"Is something funny?" Deane asked. The young nobleman didn't sound offended, only curious.

"My hair," Elia said, still chuckling.

"We don't mind telling you her secret," Tabren added. "It's just that she gets that color by having it grow on her head."

Deane gaped.

"It..._grows_...?"

Elia smiled and tossed her head, making her hair flow down around her shoulders in a purely feminine gesture. Oddly enough, it was the most lighthearted action Tabren had seen from her, one mingling pleasure and satisfaction. It was as if, for just a moment, she'd let all her troubles fall away and the girl inside had come out.

"That's right," Tabren said.

"It's _natural_?"

"So far as I can tell," Elia replied.

"That must be terribly convenient. Jewel tones have been all the rage this year, so the other ladies must be horribly jealous that you don't have to spend hours with your hairdresser's dye-pot...except, I had assumed you were a lady _because_ of your hair, but if it's natural...though I can't imagine you in any way _common_..."

"I honestly don't know one way or another," Elia cut off the stream of consciousness. Tabren winced inwardly as he saw the shadows come back into her eyes. "I've lost my memory."

"How unusual. I'm sure Leni could help with that, though."

"Leni?"

"My sister. I did just mention her, you know," he said defensively, with just a trace of a pout. Deane, Tabren guessed, was sensitive when people overlooked what he said, since he probably often got called on when he _didn't_ mention things (like apologies for nearly skewering someone).

"Oh, Lenia Carras!" Tabren exclaimed as names fell into place.

"Yes, of course," Elia agreed. "The professor that Edric's mentor told us about. We should have realized the significance of the Chief Magistrate's family name before now."

"Do you mean to say that Leni is getting recommendations? How famous! She'll be positively ecstatic to hear it."

"Is your sister very much like you?" Elia wondered.

"Oh, quite. We have different hobbies, of course; she's rather involved in this University business of hers and can't tell one end of a gear from another, not that gears actually have ends, but we're quite close for all that. I'm horribly jealous that she gets to live in the capital, though. We're always at least three months behind the latest fashions here."

"I'm not entirely sure this is such a good idea," Tabren murmured dubiously. His mind had trouble working its way around the idea of a debutante scholar.

"Did you come to see Leni?" Deane asked, thankfully oblivious to the implications of Tabren's remark (and probably to the remark itself). "She only visits for a few weeks a year, so if that's what you wanted I'm afraid you're out of luck."

"No, we'll be going to Meribia to see her," Elia explained. "We came to Nanza to meet with your father. Two of our traveling companions are with him now."

"Oh, politics. How dreary."

Elia and Tabren met each other's gazes and broke out into identical grins.

"No, I don't think 'dreary' is _quite_ the right word," Elia said.


	18. Official Comic Relief

"Actually," Tabren said, "this is pretty exciting stuff they're talking about. There's heresy, assassination plots, the Vile Tribe, and an attempt to start a war!"

"Really? I'd buy tickets to see that if it were on the stage."

Elia smiled.

"It does have that quality to it, doesn't it? Especially once you add in the legendary heroine, the notorious villain who really isn't so bad as his reputation paints him, the young man in search of His First Adventure, and the mysterious maiden who's lost her memory."

Deane boggled; he looked so funny that Tabren could barely repress a laugh.

"The two of you are involved in all of _that_? Oh, please, you simply _must_tell me all about it." A thought struck him and he added, "If you're not sworn to secrecy or something like that, of course."

"Not yet," Tabren said.

"In fact," Elia added, recalling what Jyrian had told Ailera, "it's quite the opposite. We want the entire story to become as widely known as possible to help head off the enemy's plans, so we'd appreciate it if you'd spread it around as much as possible."

Deane beamed.

"I'm very good at that."

Somehow, Tabren knew he would be.

"Why don't you tell it, Tabren?" Elia told him. "I missed the very first part of it."

Tabren nodded, then launched into a stirring rendition of their adventures thus far. Apparently, he had repressed bardic tendencies, because he chose a very theatrical style, full of asides, commentaries, and flowing verbiage, even going so far as to act out some of the more dramatic moments. Perhaps it was just the irony at work, since the reason he'd gone off to the library in the first place was so he wouldn't have to sit through another retelling of the story.

Apparently it suited the audience, though; Deane and Elia gave him a round of applause when he was finished.

"Wow! I didn't know you were such a great storyteller!" the girl exclaimed. Tabren felt his face redden, all the while aware that real actors didn't blush at compliments from pretty girls.

"That is a first-rate tale," Deane said. "Well, a touch melodramatic, I grant, but deuce take it I _like_melodrama. There are quite sufficient amounts of tragedy and metaphor in real life. Well, perhaps not in mine, but surely in _someone's_. I never do understand those avant-garde things the Meribian playhouses are showing these days."

Tabren and Elia shared a glance of confusion. Neither one of them had the slightest idea what they were talking about.

"Do you know, I believe I'll invite myself along on your trip," Deane decided.

"Come again?"

"All this stirring adventure is the perfect chance to field-test my new crossbow! It's one thing to shoot targets, but it won't be completed until I see how well it works in actual battle. With all the mercenaries and mad cultists and sundry ne'er-do-wells, I'm sure to get plenty of opportunity. Though, if you could arrange some Vile Tribe monsters, that would be especially useful for variety's sake."

"Um..." Tabren stammered helplessly. He looked over at Elia, who didn't seem to have any assistance to offer. Left to his own devices, he shamelessly passed the buck. "You'll really have to ask Morhault and Jyrian about that. They're leading the group." Somehow, he couldn't see the efficient and businesslike Jyrian putting up with the foppish nobleman for even the length of time it would take him to make the request. That was probably a good thing; Deane was amusing enough but not quite the sort of person Tabren wanted near him with a loaded crossbow.

"All right," Deane said, "let's go do that."

-X X X-

"Then that's how we'll arrange it," Halan Carras summed up the results of the conference. He, Ailera, and Jyrian had done most of the talking, with Morhault only occasionally contributing something when he had a specific point to add. After all, they spoke for Church, State, and Magic Guild, while his opinions were solely his own. Of course, that also meant that his obligations were also only those he had chosen for himself. The renegade liked that aspect of leaving the Lion Knights; he no longer had to accept duties that were assigned by someone else's ideas of morality.

There wasn't any problem in that direction now, of course. The Burning Hand _had_ to be stopped. The only moral dilemma he faced was whether he should take up arms against the cult, or if Elia--who did not have governments, religious figures, and the Magic Guild looking after her--should be his primary concern. Even that had been largely defused by the course of the conference.

Before Halan could sum things up, his office door swung open and a violet-eyed, blond noble who was clearly some relation to the Chief Magistrate entered with Tabren and Elia following.

"Deane," Halan said in long-suffering tones, "I'm in the middle of something right now."

"Oh, don't worry, this won't take long. Hello, Lady Ailera," he said to the High Priestess.

"Hello, Deane," she replied with the ghost of a smile playing about her lips.

"You two must be Jyrian and Morhault, then. Somehow I thought you'd be taller," he told the magician.

"I'm sitting down," she said, her face mirroring Ailera's.

"That might explain it. Or not, since I can't really tell how long your legs are."

"Most men who look at my legs aren't thinking about their length," Jyrian pointed out.

"No," Deane agreed, nodding, "I wouldn't believe so, men being what we are. I always stop and take notice of a pretty girl's legs, myself, even though I do try to behave as a gentleman."

Morhault chuckled softly. He didn't know this Deane, but a minute in his company was enough to tell him that the acquaintance would be an endless source of amusement.

"Was there some point to this?" Halan asked, a bit tersely.

"Some point? Oh, yes, Father. I was just a bit sidetracked.

"Jyrian's legs do that to all sorts of people," Morhault noted. Jyrian groaned painfully.

That "Father" had neatly explained Halan Carras's lack of humor towards Deane. It tended to drain the amusement when that kind of entertaining personality was one's responsibility (not to mention one's legacy to the future and the parent of one's grandchildren).

"You were saying?" Halan said, trying to keep his son pinned to the point and away from any further tangents.

"Oh, yes. I told Tabren and Elia that I wanted to accompany them on their journey, and they said I should ask Morhault and Jyrian, since they were the leaders."

"Are we leaders?" Jyrian quipped to the fallen knight.

"Apparently so."

"Why do you want to join them?" Halan asked. "You haven't shown an interest in being a crusading hero since you were six years old playing Dragonmaster-and-demon with your friends."

"Oh, no, that's so tiresome--er, I meant no offense, Master Jyrian--but just think what a wonderful opportunity it would be to field-test my new repeating crossbow!"

"Repeating crossbow?" Morhault asked, his professional curiosity piqued.

"He showed it to us," Tabren said. "It's got a...what did he call it?"

"A magazine," Elia supplied.

"Oh, that's right, a magazine that holds ten bolts. Deane showed us how it works; he could shoot one bolt right after another, almost as fast as a hunting bow.

"Interesting," Morhault said. "I'd like to see that in action, if there's time to go out to the range later."

Deane, Tabren, and Elia shared a guilty look.

"Well, um..."

"What young Tabren is trying to say, I suspect," Halan translated, "is that since this mansion doesn't actually have an archery range and since Deane finds the city range to be at an inconvenient distance from his tools, they've been taking target practice indoors. The library again?"

"It _is_the largest room," Deane protested. "Anyway, that's why I want to go with you. Tabren told me your story, and fighting the Burning Hand would be a wonderful chance to see how my repeating crossbow works under actual battle conditions!"

"I hate to disappoint you," Morhault said, "but we're not going off to fight the Burning Hand."

"You're not?"

"We're not?" Tabren echoed.

"We're not," Jyrian confirmed. "The High Priestess and the Chief Magistrate will send word to the Governor, and Halan is going to have the Barrier Guard sweep the cult's mercenaries out of the mountains."

"Then what are _we_doing?" the boy exclaimed, stunned.

"We're going to take a boat across the gulf from Lann to Meribia. Jyrian is going to report to the Guild and Black Rose Street is closer than the land journey to Vane. Meanwhile, I thought Elia and I should get back to our real quest, trying to help restore her memories, so--presuming you're willing to go, Elia--we'll head along to the University of Meribia to see if Lenia Carras can offer any help. Interestingly enough, she's the Chief Magistrate's daughter."

"Oh!" Elia gasped. Her eyes dropped shyly. "You'd give up fighting the Burning Hand for my sake?" she asked in a very small voice.

Morhault shook his head sharply.

"You've got it backwards. My job is helping you; I stepped aside from _that_for a while to fight the cult."

"But...but I can't even pay you anything!"

Some people just didn't know how to accept help.

"Where is it written that I have to spend all of my time being mercenary?"

"Besides which," Jyrian said, "I'm going to get the Magic Guild to kick in five hundred silver for each of you, and Edric too, for your assistance in uncovering this plot. So if it's really bothering your conscience, you can hire him."

Halan looked curiously at Jyrian.

"I didn't realize your Guild was so generous."

"They aren't. Ordinarily they'd offer around two hundred each and I'd be able to haggle them up another fifty. Now, though, that a Master of the Magic Guild has made a public pronouncement in front of the Chief Magistrate of Nanza and a High Priestess of the Church, they won't want to lose face by trying to weasel out of the debt."

"Very sneaky, Jyrian," Morhault approved.

"Sneaky, nothing! I'd never have learned a thing about the plot if it wasn't for you. The least I can do is pay you what you've earned."

"My kind of employer--especially given that you never actually hired us."

"Thank you." She looked over at Deane. "So, are you interested in a trip to Meribia instead?"

"Oh, of course. The city is always exciting, and one cannot overlook the chance of meeting pirates."

"Are you sure about this?" Tabren asked Jyrian dubiously.

"Definitely. Can you think of a better way to make absolutely certain Elia gets to see Deane's sister?" Her smile wasn't hinting at anything anymore; it was an out-and-out smirk.


	19. Interlude Vile

The throbbing pulse echoed like the steady, ominous beat of goblin war-drums through the cavernous room. It was the heart of an ancient mine, four levels high, crisscrossed with wooden catwalks and ore-cart tracks that should, it seemed, have been shaken apart by the unceasing vibrations. Yet the structure of the chamber remained intact, the towering beams stayed secure, and the rock ceiling did not so much as tremble. Likewise, men and women went about their business, scuttling freely to and fro like worker ants without giving any sign that they could hear the echoing beat.

There were those who could feel it, the old man knew, just as he did. His blood seemed to resonate with it; so strong was the vibration that it seemed to beat against his very soul, and yet for all that so many of those present felt it might not have existed at all. That was the way of magic. Only those possessed of the gift to touch it, to shape it, could feel it in its elemental state. The others, the poor blind fools, only knew that magic was present when it was translated into tangible form. Even when they reached out to use it, it was by the clumsy mechanism of spells. Their wills alone could not act on what they could not sense.

Eron Lukai pitied the humans, the beastmen this lack. Althena's "beloved children" on whom she showered her blessings--so long as they were _kept_ children, unable to touch the essence of the Goddess's creation, the magic that made Lunar green and shining instead of a barren rock. Eron's people had dared to do more, to seize their own fate, and Althena had responded by hurling them to the barren waste of the Frontier where only the strongest among them could sustain a pretense of a life. Even the _name_ of the people had been taken. The only ones who were still _mazoku_--the "magic race"--were the cringing dogs who had remained as slaves to Althena's magicians in Vane. The rest were cursed with the outcast's brand as the "Vile Tribe."

So many had turned vile in appearance as well as name over the centuries. Their magic had taken root, hardened into fangs and claws for fighting, wings to fly with, leathery skin to turn away attacks, thick fur to shrug off the cold of frozen nights. Survival on the Frontier had demanded it. Only those like Lukai, with the strongest gifts, could endure in their natural, untainted form. Yet another "gift" of the Goddess.

By rights the throne on which Lukai sat should have been in a palace hall, perhaps the Goddess Tower itself. Of course, it would not have been Lukai's throne, then. It would have been the Magic Emperor's, he who had led the Vile Tribe out of the Frontier, who had enslaved the Goddess to his will. That would have been well enough with him. Lukai's care was only for the Vile Tribe, not his own power. That was a leader's role. To guide, to protect, to preserve what was sacred.

As always, thinking of leadership, of what had gone before and failed, made Eron Lukai's blood burn with hate. When the Magic Emperor had come to the Vile Tribe, it had been led by three sisters. Two had died by the hand of the Dragonmaster and his companions in the final defense of the Magic Emperor. Xenobia the soul-twister and Royce the sibyl had given their lives to defend the hopes and destiny of their people, but the third...

_Phacia!_ The name was acid on his tongue! She had betrayed her sisters, betrayed them all. Without her assistance at key moments, the Dragonmaster would have failed in his task. As if that was not enough, she had then led most of the surviving Tribe to fawn like mongrel dogs at the Goddess's feet, to slink around the edges of human society and try to live as one with it. Throwing away their pride as Vile Tribesfolk to bow to Althena's yoke while cowering in fear lest their origins be revealed.

All that was left of the true Vile Tribe were those remnants Lukai ruled. Only they were worthy of the name, and yet they were so few in number that they were forced to rely upon humans to make up their strength. Humans! Most of them greedy malcontents who did not care what crimes they committed or what bonds they betrayed so long as it gained them power or wealth. They could be controlled by bribery and through fear, but never trusted. Only a scant few genuinely recognized the wrongness of Althena's rule, that it must be stopped, and even they...

No, Lukai thought, not even the best of his human followers could truly understand the long centuries the Vile Tribe had suffered in the Frontier. They could learn the wrongness of it philosophically, sympathize with it out of a sense of justice and compassion, but how could they _feel_ its essence in their souls, the knowledge passed down from parent to child, parent to child over generations that one was outcast, that the only way one would ever know any of what was good in Lunar was to steal it or to seize it by force?

That was why Lukai fought, why Lukai schemed. Never was it for himself. When the Vile Tribe stood triumphant at last, it would be the Pyre Lord that led them, not he.

Purity of purpose, though, was no guarantee of success. There were still flaws in Lukai's plans, or rather risks that had to be taken into which chance could still intercede. Success stemmed from the leader, but had to be seized by the followers lest they fail.

As Geldoth had failed.

The ranks parted, allowing the bearded disciple of the Burning Hand to advance. He strode down the center of the room to stand before Lukai, then knelt, lowering his head in reverence--or at least momentary submission to a greater power.

Like the master, the disciple was awake to the magic that reverberated through the chamber. The immensity of the force was unusual to him, for his blood was tainted by humanity, the spawn of one of Phacia's turncoats who'd bred with a human. He was not awake to the power like a true Vile, but the pulse was so string that it resonated even against the whispering echoes of magical nature in him. He trembled, fighting for control, and in his heart of hearts Lukai smiled at Geldoth's show of human weakness.

"All praise to the Pyre Lord, guide and master to the Vile Tribe," Geldoth said according to ritual.

"Fire protect you in your service to our cause," Lukai replied. "Rise, Geldoth."

The disciple stood. Despite his height and Lukai's seated position, the younger man's head only came to the Vile prince's waist, forcing him to lift his gaze in the gesture of a submissive. Among the Vile Tribe there was no question of who was ruler and who was ruled. They did not play Althena's game of encouraging freedom until the humans came cringing back to the Goddess when they reached the end of their powers.

"You return to us in failure, Disciple," Lukai stated. His voice was rich and fluid, for even at five centuries old he still bore the outward semblance of youth, his face unlined and his greenish-aqua hair untinted by white. Perhaps a century more of such power awaited him, as best he could judge, then another of steady decay until his magic was at last gone and death claimed him. The life span of the magic race was strictly linked to the strength of that magic. "Doubly so, for the cost of your return was that which was owed to the Pyre Lord."

"I felt the cost worth it," Geldoth said. "Yes, I sought to preserve my own life, but also to bring word of what took place back to you, as well as to save the treasure you entrusted to me."

He extended the amber-hued stone in his gloved fist to Lukai, illustrating his point neatly even as he made a show of submission to Lukai's rank by surrendering the orb. The prince waved the gesture aside with a flick of his fingers. The stone was Geldoth's responsibility.

"You should not have had to pay the cost at all. I want an explanation."

"We were discovered," Geldoth replied. "Assassins were sent to eliminate the witnesses and claimed success, but as it proved they had been captured in the attempt and turned traitor to save their worthless necks from the rope. The temple was raided and Syrek's instructions were overheard. The guards attempted to stop our enemies but failed; all they accomplished was enough of a delay for Syrek and I to get away--and, as you are already aware, I was forced to resort to extreme measures just to do that."

A carefully phrased speech, Lukai thought. He had not missed how Geldoth had specifically omitted his own name from the litany of specific failures.

"Unless some great stroke of fortune turns in our favor," Geldoth snarled, showing more emotion, "the Nota cityguard, the civilian government, and for all we know the priests of that blue-haired bitch-Goddess know everything we've planned. Syrek's political position is probably too strong for him to be removed unless he does something stupid--which he probably will when his fear gets hold of his brains--but they'll watch him. That makes him worse than useless to us. The only thing salvageable is that the name and rank of our Meribian envoy weren't mentioned so there's no trail that way."

Lukai grimaced, showing teeth.

"A meager crumb indeed! What of our greater purpose?"

"Nothing was said of it, and no evidence was left behind."

"A fortunate thing. Do you know the identity of any of those who attacked you?"

"One. Their leader was that cow from Vane, Jyrian Mageborn." Geldoth, one noted, did not always have a very high opinion of women.

"Excellent," Lukai hissed. "You will find your would-be heroine and her friends and make them pay for this insult. I want it known that to trifle with the Burning Hand is tantamount to suicide, even for an epic hero of the Magic Guild. First, however, I suggest you remove Syrek from this life. He is useless to us, and he has no loyalty to the cause. Should our enemies find their stomachs, they could force him to tell much, not perhaps of greater plans but at least of names, methods, our rituals...and should his interrogators be magically knowledgeable as well as observant, far more than that."

Geldoth nodded.

"Very well, Your Highness. If I may ask, what of Domari and his mission?"

"It was a partial success. He achieved his goal, but in bringing his prize to us he failed, and received the ultimate punishment for that failure in the act. We believe that one of Althena's minions retrieved the Falcon and will attempt to deliver it to his masters at the Cathedral."

Geldoth's eyes flashed.

"Then I shall leave at once in pursuit!"

"Be calm, Geldoth. I have already assigned that task to Nagoyan," Lukai said, naming the third disciple.

"It's in _my_ domain! Retrieving the Falcon should be my task!"

Customarily, the disciples each controlled cult operations within a certain geographical area, as they were meant to be temporal lords of the world one day. To the Vile Tribe, the number three was symbolic, as four was to Althena's followers. A new disciple to replace Donari would have to be named soon, to complete that trinity again. It was reasonable, therefore, that Geldoth would expect to be assigned to the task, for he ruled the Hand in the Katarina Zone and Madoria Plains.

There were, however, other concerns, one of which was the proper order of things.

"_I have given you your tasks!_" Lukai roared, his voice no longer silk and velvet. "It is _my_ place to say what will and will not be, and _your_ place to obey! You will atone for your own failures before you attempt to take on those of others, Geldoth. Only then will your shame be washed clean."

Geldoth trembled again, this time not from the weight of the cavern's magic but from rage, the heat growing inside him. For a long, rebellious moment, his human-dark eyes locked with Lukai's crimson ones, but at last his gaze dropped.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Then go, and be about your task."

Revenge was one of the prominent duties of the Burning Hand, of course, but there was more to it than the satisfaction of balancing the scales or even of sending a message to Althena's cowering masses. Taking vengeance on Jyrian and her companions would help to lay a false trail for the governments and other organizations of Althena's order. The cult's enemies would eagerly chase after the now-dead political scheme while the greater plot remained entirely unknown to them. Presuming, of course, that Nagoyan was successful in his task--but then, if he was not, all would be lost.

The tools of stealth and deception, Lukai admitted in his heart of hearts, did not come naturally to him, not even after three hundred years. To conquer by righteous strength, to destroy his enemies by main force, was his natural instinct. Royce, ah, now she had been a different story. A serpent's guile had been hers to the end. Thankfully, the day was coming when it would no longer be necessary to scheme and intrigue like thieves and courtiers. Soon, the Goddess Althena would be no more than a forgotten relic of history.

The Prince of the Vile Tribe leaned back on his throne and closed his eyes, the pulsing beat of magic flowing through his body becoming the martial music that fueled his dreams of conquest.


	20. Interlude Mercenary

A thin, cold mist wove its way eerily through the stunted, scrubby trees and lent them an almost ghostly aspect, as if their limbs were twisted not by nature but in suffering. Krasek had spent time in places far colder than the highlands of the Nanza Barrier, but he shivered anyway. The fog brought a different kind of cold than he was used to, not the frozen brutality of a Zulan winter but a more subtle and insidious chill that crept into the bones and joints, seeming to work on the mercenary's body from the inside out. He tugged on the Notan tabard he wore over his mail, futilely trying to pull it into a warmer position.

Putting on the uniform was automatic now, even though Krasek didn't anticipate the ambush would take place for several more days. It was the habit of an experienced soldier on campaign, learned from the bad examples of others: always be prepared for the worst. Krasek had drummed the lesson into the heads of the troop of fifty he'd been placed in command over, sometimes with bloody but highly persuasive examples. He didn't like having to make such examples; they wasted manpower and the need for them had given rise to all kinds of doubts about the professionalism of his soldiers.

That was a problem with a job like this one. Krasek himself had no qualms about the morality of it, or with his client. He had long since given up paying more than lip service to the Goddess, or any other deity. So long as he was paid for his work, he was content. That was far from a universal attitude, however. It had been hard enough to find seasoned professionals willing to commit themselves to a cause of "political agitation"; he had only five or six experienced veterans and he'd probably lose them if they knew the Burning Hand was the agitator. The rest of the men and women were nothing but bandits, vicious and experienced at ambushes but unreliable if things turned to a stand-up fight.

His eyes slid musingly over to Veylhan. The shabbily-dressed conjuror sat with his threadbare cloak pulled around him, apparently feeling the cold just as much if not more than Krasek. Nota's cityguard, like any army worth the name, occasionally made use of magicians, so Veylhan's magic would be available in battle without giving away the game. The question was, what was that magic worth? In previous years Krasek had seen Veylhan turn the tide of battle by calling up razor lions or hellvines, but Kyre was the first time he'd produced a girl--and an unconscious one at that, no use in battle. Worse yet, the experience of having one of his spells blow up in his face had demoralized Veylhan, had him doubting his own powers. There was very little value indeed in a magician who couldn't use magic.

_This assassination_, the mercenary decided, _has all the signs of an impending disaster_. Surprise and terrain would be their only advantage. Fortunately, they had found a perfect spot along the road, where a cliff offered a vantage point to rain down boulders and arrows and hiding places were close enough for a good-sized force to attack from cover. The attack from above should break up the entourage's formation and let the hand-to-hand assault take them off-guard. There was a good chance of success--if their positions weren't found by the scouts and outriders the Governor's guard would send out if they had any sense. They might not; ceremonial guards often lacked combat experience. Krasek wasn't willing to wager his pay on the enemy's stupidity, though. That was why he had his own scouts posted. It was something the bandits were good at; many had long experience at hiding from the law in woods and forests.

Even now, Krasek noted, the group who'd take over the sentry posts this morning were heading off. At least he'd been able to instill some discipline in them, gotten them used to thinking like part of a unit. The problem was, would that hold on once people started dying or if the opportunity to grab loot became available?

The sentries coming off-duty were struggling back into camp. More than likely they would head straight for the ale kegs and wineskins, and then to bed. Except for Rogar, he amended, seeing the wiry bandit emerge from the trees. The man had gone and found religion, becoming a full-fledged member of the Burning Hand, and refused to let alcohol dilute his thoughts of his new god. _Idiot, _Krasek dismissed him from his mind. In his opinion, anyone who followed any cause with blind devotion was a fool. A man had to look out for himself first, last, and always, not sacrifice his well-being for some other person, or worse yet some ideal. At least Rogar had kept his mouth shut about the precise nature of his new zeal so as not to stir up trouble.

The mercenary captain cut short his ruminations on his philosophy of life when he realized that something wasn't right. Almost subconsciously he had been keeping track of the sentries who'd returned to camp, and two were missing.

"Where are Burkhart and Vanya?"

Someone made a lewd comment about what the two of them might be doing together. The laughter died quickly under the force of Krasek's flinty gaze. If the two of them _had_ in fact taken the opportunity to go off together, they would regret it. If not...

"Burkhart was northeast of here, and Vanya on that low ridge to the east. Medrac," he asked another man, the best of the scouts, "go check on them and be careful. If they've run into trouble I don't want you walking into it, too." The black-bearded rogue nodded, then vanished into the mists. "The rest of you, get ready. We may have to move or fight, so break camp, and don't even think about putting your weapons down."

There was a fair amount of grumbling, especially from the sentries who had just come off nightwatch and were looking forward to sleep, but they got to work. They were about halfway done when Medrac half-ran, half-staggered out of the thicket. There were cuts on his face and arms and a makeshift bandage tied around his upper thigh, a bandage that was soaked through with blood.

"There's a whole battalion out there!" he gasped out. "They're moving in from the east."

"What happened to you?"

"Barrier Guard," Medrac said, twisting his lips into a sickly grin. "I got the jump on him in the fog but he still nearly killed me."

"It's definitely the Guard, not a battalion of the regular army?"

"Oh, yeah. They definitely didn't have those pretty blue-and-silver uniforms." The Barrier Guard were elites out of Nanza, reputedly founded by Kyle the Bandit himself, but whether or not they had any connection to the legend of the last Dragonmaster they were experts in both combat and wilderness craft, as was necessary for a group that operated exclusively within the Barrier. Generally, though, they acted in small units, either on patrol or escorting travelers.

"They know about us," Krasek instantly concluded. "The Barrier Guard wouldn't operate in such a large force without a specific goal in mind, and there haven't been any recent bandit outbreaks or monster incursions to justify it. Their goal is _us_," he told his troops, "and I suggest we not wait around long enough for them to reach it."

Krasek hadn't wasted his time waiting for Medrac; he had saddled his horse and now mounted the big Prairie-bred gelding. Those few of his soldiers with steeds did so as well, while the rest would have to fend on foot as best they could.

The problem with an all-out retreat was the noise it made. One or two men could move silently in the woods, but never fifty. The Meribians already knew they were in the right general area thanks to the sentries they'd found and overcome, and if they were close _enough_...

They were.

Arrows ripped from the mist, slashing into Krasek's bandits. They were surrounded on three sides by soldiers who poured from the woods, irregulars in leather and their leaders in mail, plus a squad of twenty armored swordsmen for heavy fighting. The mercenary captain drew his blade and rode down on the flank of the attackers.

"Fire!" he bellowed. "Fire and smoke!" His sword bit deeply into a Meribian, cutting her down. Meanwhile, his troops were desperately trying to obey his orders, but trying to strike sparks in the middle of a melee was a near-impossible task. It was Veylhan who succeeded, the portal of his conjury sending forth the shapes of three raptors wreathed in emerald fire. The flame hawks dove among the trees, which burst forth in common orange flame.

Krasek's lips curved into a thin smile as he saw Veylhan's magic go to work. Smoke, fog, and flame, combined with the close-set trees, wrought a spell of their own, one called confusion. In an eyeblink the battle turned from the desperate flight of a badly outnumbered force to an ungovernable anarchy. The ring of steel on steel filled the air, combined with the crackle of the flames, the screams of the injured and dying, and the orders shouted out by Meribian sergeants and officers as they tried with little success to keep their troops under control. The trees had been well-soaked by the recent rains and burned slowly, sending out great clouds of pungent wood smoke that stung the eyes and nostrils. It was like a taste of the flaming pit so many had declared would be Krasek's ultimate fate.

With the right wind, a forest fire could be as fast as lightning, so Krasek knew that above all else he needed to escape the wooded patch. The fire was mostly cosmetic now, but it might easily become an inferno. Alternately, it was possible that when Veylhan's summoned flame hawks were gone the fires they had set would go with them. Neither option made it advisable for Krasek to remain in the area any longer than strictly necessary.

There was one order of business he wanted to take care of before leaving, though. He beat off the attack of two footmen, cutting one down with his blade and sending a second reeling back into the flames with a kick to the face, all the while searching the mass of frightened, desperate bodies. His eyes fell on a young lieutenant, probably the younger son of some highborn family who had turned to an army career.

Sensing his rider's distraction, Krasek's horse tried to bolt beneath him, but he brought the animal under control despite its terror of the smoke and flame. The fact that he was able to do so at all was more a testament to its Prairie bloodlines and training than any skill of his own; Krasek had not, after all, chosen his steed accidentally. He forced a charge through the throng of bodies, driving soldiers of both sides away to clear his path. He crashed the hilt of his broadsword into the lieutenant's face, stunning him. As the Meribian reeled, Krasek caught him under the arms and hauled him up over his saddlebow, then flipped off the lieutenant's helmet and cracked him over the back of the head to make sure that he'd stay unconscious for long enough to get away.

By now, the melee had further degenerated into what was little more than a riot that no one on either side could control. Insulated by the fight against arrow fire and faster than his pursuers on even an encumbered horse, Krasek spurred his steed on and bolted for the woods. The wind was still, which would keep the blaze from spreading rapidly; indeed, in the damp conditions it was barely spreading at all. Veylhan was able to follow his lead; the magician couldn't stop his own horse from fleeing in panic but got it pointed in the right direction at last. Soon, the battle was several miles away and they were out of the trees, surrounded only by the bare rock that made up most of the Nanza Barrier's terrain. Krasek slowed his horse to a walk. He stripped his prisoner of weapons and armor, bound his wrists and ankles, gagged him, and--ever pragmatic--relieved the noble of a full coin purse and a small emerald ring.

He didn't bother to stop and question the man at once, though. He waited for two days, ignoring the mute entreaties in his prisoner's eyes as well as Veylhan's questioning glances, allowing the lieutenant only an occasional trickle of water as they slipped through the net of soldiers. The entire Barrier Guard had been mobilized, it seemed, together with squads from the regular army, and it was luck as much as skill that let the mercenary and his magician follower escape with their skins.

On the night of the second day, Krasek built a fire at his campsite. He heated two things: a haunch of venison and the blade of his knife.

The promise of a quick death loosened the soldier's tongue at the last when mere pain did not.

He'd known little for certain, only that the Chief Magistrate of Nanza had ordered the Barrier scoured in search of the false Notan cityguards. The purpose of the mission, to prevent Governor Olberad's assassination and thwart the attempt to start an unjust war, hadn't been kept quiet but had been trumpeted among the officers and even the common troops, in contrast to the usual policy of secrecy most politicians followed when they played their courtier's games with people's lives.

As for who had told the Magistrate about Krasek and his band, there was only gossip. The most common story, which persisted no matter how implausible it might be, was that it had been Jyrian Mageborn herself who had brought the information, in company with a man named Morhault (though clearly not _the_ Morhault, according to the story, since Jyrian would of course never associate with such an infamous character).

Giving the man a quick death had been easy at that point. Krasek couldn't help but imagine that it was Morhault's throat that he slashed. Again that bastard had interfered with him, even from miles away!

_I should have made sure of him in Kyre_, he thought angrily. No matter that this job had been waiting or that the cityguard had probably been set on his trail after the failed interrogation of the boy, he should have stayed in town and taken the effort to kill the fallen knight.

_This time, Morhault, I won't rest until I can spit upon your corpse!_

He would begin his search in Nanza. A man who traveled in the company of a legend, consorted with reigning officials, and carried his own infamy with him wherever he went would leave a broad trail. Wherever Krasek had to follow, he would go. There were old debts as well as the new one that had to be paid.


	21. The Festival City

The rosy glow of sunset was shining behind Morhault and his companions as their boat sailed into Meribia's harbor. The outer walls of the city that guarded against land attack were sheathed in white marble, and they threw back the reds and pinks and golds that the descending sun cast over them, making the city gleam like a fiery twin to the cool hues of the Blue Star above. Elia gasped aloud as she saw the shining city, the forest of ship masts, and the white seabirds circling slowly on the wind above. She stared, transfixed by the sight, but the other four also stood at the rail and silently took in the view.

"I wonder," Morhault said after several minutes, "how much that little project cost the people of Meribia in taxes?"

Jyrian gave him a look of pure disgust.

"Do you _always_ have to be so cynical?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Well," she declared, "I can't agree with you. Anything that brings beauty into the world is worth doing for its own sake."

Looking at the gleaming city, Morhault began to think that she might have a point.

"Besides," Jyrian added as their boat approached the dock, "where did all those taxes go? That silver was paid to stone quarries, transport companies, architects, masons, and common laborers--in other words, to the people of Meribia. You can't say that about a lot of the projects rulers and ministers start, and this one has made thousands of people like us feel happy as we look at the city." She paused, then added with a broad smile, "Of course, it's not as beautiful as Vane."

"Well, of course," Morhault said, smiling back at her. "Now, if we've all stared at the pretty city for long enough, shall we get going? I for one am looking forward to a nice, soft bed and a meal I didn't have to cook."

"We just stayed at an inn last night in Lann," Tabren pointed out.

"I though all that rain we had would have cured you of the camping-out-is-fun disease. Especially since tonight is Jyrian's turn to cook."

"Ugh; I take it all back!"

"Is something wrong with Jyrian's cooking?" Deane asked.

The black-haired magician grinned.

"Let's just say that my friends in the Magic Guild say that I decided to take up adventuring because I couldn't cut it as a housewife."

Jyrian and Morhault debated the quality of various inns they knew as they walked through the harbor district. They had almost reached a compromise between luxury and price when Deane spoke up.

"Excuse me, but is there some adventuring tradition that requires us to stay at an inn?"

"No," Morhault said, "only the desire not to sleep on the street."

"Usually I stay at the Guildhall on Black Rose Street," Jyrian said, "but they only allow one guest."

"Oh, I see. I thought it might be some kind of custom, but since it isn't, why don't we just stay at the townhouse?"

All four of them looked at Deane in surprise.

"Well, it is just standing there unused," he added, "and we do have a first-rate chef. Father would even be happy because it would give the staff a chance to air it out. Dust does have a way of collecting when no one is in residence."

Since Morhault didn't actually own a house of his own, he wasn't in a position to comment on that. He was, however, entirely willing to accept Deane's offer. The others were in complete agreement.

The guards at the gate between the harbor and the city proper gave the companions barely a glance, recognizing Deane at once if not by name then at least by type. They certainly weren't going to search the gear of a noble for contraband without information suggesting that it was necessary.

"The townhouse would be north of here, towards the Governor's mansion, Deane?" Jyrian asked.

"That's right. It's at...oh, what _was_ that address again? Aha! I remember, it was 17 Westward Lane."

"All right, then. Black Rose Street is all the way across town, so if you won't be offended I'll take my leave now, make my report and sleep there for the night, then catch up with you sometime tomorrow. With luck, I'll have gotten the treasurer to pry open his vault for your reward by then."

Morhault grinned.

"We mercenaries appreciate your promptness."

"I thought you might," she replied, then turned with a jaunty wave and set off along a cross street. They all watched her go, not saying anything until Jyrian had rounded a corner and was out of sight.

"I know we're going to see her tomorrow," Elia said, "but still...that felt like a goodbye."

"It was," Morhault answered softly.

"What?" Tabren exclaimed.

"Now here, Morhault, you can't be thinking that Jyrian would go off without paying what she promised. It just isn't done!"

"Actually, Deane, it's done all too often, though I agree that Jyrian isn't the type. The fact of it, though, is that I wasn't talking about money."

"Oh, well, that's much more the thing. Um...what was it that you _did_ mean?"

"This is probably the end of her journey with us."

Tabren gasped, startled.

"But why?" he protested.

"She works for the Magic Guild. She knows they may well have another project waiting for her when she makes her report. You, Elia, and I are all off on our own quest, and we'll be following where it leads. It's quite possible that tomorrow she'll be sent off on another job and we won't see her at all."

"But--" the boy began again, then stopped. Starting over, he said, "I never got the chance to--" then broke off again.

"Neither did I," Elia said, understanding. "She's probably said a lot of goodbyes in her adventuring career. It can't be easy."

Morhault nodded, thinking of how many times both as a knight and as a mercenary a causal goodbye had turned out to be a final one. How many times would it have been the same for Jyrian?

"No," he agreed, "I'm sure it can't."

The little group's mood was somber as Deane led them down the broad main avenue from the harbor, and it held as they passed through the streets, surrounded by the ebb and flow of the largest city on Lunar. Tabren was from a bustling port town, but the cosmopolitan nature of Meribia amazed him, putting even Nota to shame. People from every corner of the world, from all walks of life passed by them. He saw fur-vested rustics from Caldor Isle haggling with Marius Zone traders, robed magicians pass Meryod-folk, the sing-song chatter of Lytonese, and saw the crowd part for Prairie Tribe horsemen on their tall, elegant steeds. Seeing them in person made Tabren wonder what it would be like to ride one, unleashed at full gallop with the wind in his hair. There were even nonhuman folk, beastmen with a variety of exotic features: tufted ears, furred bodies, fanged jaws, even horns growing from their heads.

The Meribians, for their part, looked much like Notans or Madorians, but more ostentatious about it, with brighter colors and a penchant for jewelry. It seemed to verify what travelers in the Laughing Dolphin had always said about the westerners: "Just like us, only richer, fancier, and more decadent."

The underside of that decadence existed too, he reflected, seeing a beggar scuttle out of the way of a pair of cityguards.

Lamplighters went to and fro among the thinning crowds, setting the street lamps on their iron poles aglow, lining the streets with a better and safer class of illumination than that provided by torches. A festive atmosphere was in the air, with smiling faces everywhere, which started to chip away at the low feelings left by Jyrian's departure, but the mood still lingered as night fell. There was little conversation as Deane took them into the city's wealthier districts, past elegant shops and large houses surrounded by fenced parks, and most of that came when he had to stop and ask for directions--twice. Those feelings were swept away, however, when they passed through the open iron gate in the wall that separated the Carras estate from the rest of the city. All three of Deane's guests were struck speechless as they got their first sight of the house.

To call Halan Carras's Meribia residence a "townhouse" was like calling a dragon a big songbird. The house was a mansion, actually larger than the magistrate's residence in Nanza. It was basically square-shaped, with a steep roof pierced by at least a half-dozen chimneys, but the facade was broken up by gables, ornate bay windows, and a columned portico capped by a fanciful fresco in imitation of those seen in older temples of Althena. The entire building was ablaze with light from every one of dozens of windows, added to by the flickering torches that lined the drive from the gate to the door. The entire effect was that of a fairytale castle, a place of enchantment and dreams.

"I thought you said this house was unused?" Morhault said.

"It is!" Deane exclaimed.

"I guess your family ghost is feeling his oats."

"Her oats," he corrected absently. "The only spirit supposed to be associated with this mansion is Marya Carras, head of House Carras five hundred years or so ago, who accidentally drank the poison her lover meant for her husband and is supposed to walk the upstairs gallery complaining about how there aren't any handsome men in the afterlife." He paused for a second. "What was I talking about?"

"Who's in the house."

"I haven't any idea. No one is supposed to be in residence." He beckoned to a liveried servant. "Hey, you there!"

"What'cher want?" the man snapped back. "This is a private party. Be off wit'cher."

"_Really_, Foulke," Deane drawled, "I know society's getting more and more exclusive these days, but do I truly need an invitation to visit my own house?"

A chuckle from one of the other retainers drifted out of the night.

"Is it just me," Tabren asked, "or does your family have a real problem with servants who don't let people in?"

"For someone who was an inn-boy a month ago," Morhault observed, "you've become remarkably sympathetic with the labor problems of the upper classes."

"It's a matter of professional pride. If I'd ever told any of Aunt Lil's customers they weren't good enough for the Dolphin she'd have boxed my ears and put me on bread and water for a week."

The man called Foulke, meanwhile, was busily trying to worm his way back into favor.

"I didn't know yer was coming, sir. I thought'cher was just some bumpkins strolling by, seeing how yer ain't got no carriage like proper guests."

"That's because my friends and I just came by boat from Lann. Now, why don't you take our bags while we go up to the house?"

Foulke and another man rushed to obey while the four travelers continued along the path to the house.

"Maybe we shouldn't go in by the front hall," Morhault said. "We're dressed for travel, not a party." Especially not a party for the cream of Meribian society.

"I am not going to sneak into my own house by the tradesman's entrance," Deane declared, "and neither are my guests." He strode boldly up the front steps, the rest of them trailing in his wake. He pressed the bell-plate and a chime rang out from behind the door. The footman on duty snapped the portal open so quickly Morhault doubted magic could have been any more efficient.

"Milord Deane! We didn't expect you!" The servant stepped back, allowing them into the foyer.

"Milord?" Tabren asked incredulously.

"Not literally," Morhault explained. "It's a courtesy title for the children of the merchant nobility. It's generally used by servants, shopkeepers, and anyone else who wants to suck up."

"Of course you don't have to call me that," Deane answered the boy.

"How gracious of you."

"Don't be pert," Morhault said.

"What's going on, Jervis?" Deane asked the servant, who was gray-haired and looked to be around fifty. He was probably the senior footman, one step beneath the majordomo and housekeeper in the belowstairs ranking. "Why is the house all lit up?"

"Why, it's your sister's Creation Festival party. Do you mean that you're not here because of Milady Lenia's invitation?"

"Really, Jervis, if I'd known Leni was having a do, I'd have dressed for the occasion. This waistcoat is a month out of fashion in Nanza, for Althena's sake."

"I'm glad that fashion sometimes makes sensible decisions," murmured the fallen knight. He lacked a trained eye, but...vertical yellow and blue stripes?

"I can't see why it was ever _in_ fashion," Tabren observed.

"I told Foulke to have our bags taken up," Deane told Jervis, "so if you could have Veria prepare my room and three guest chambers, we'll try and stay out of Leni's way."

"I'll see to it at once. Happy Festival, milord."

"Happy Fest--oh, I say, you mean that the Festival is _today_?"

Morhault added up the days, surprised. It was all too easy to lose track of the calendar on the road, when one day was much like another. It was indeed, he realized, the day of the Festival of Althena's Creation. The name was somewhat of a misnomer; the priests taught that the Goddess had not precisely _created_ Lunar but had brought its people there millennia ago from the Blue Star. Althena had, however, brought forth life on what had been a dead world, just as it was her power that sustained that life and her withholding of it that had left the Frontier barren. The Festival was a celebration of that life, a time of thanksgiving for Althena's gift and of the joy of sharing in it.

"It actually is," he said with a dawning smile. "Happy Festival, everyone."

"Thank you, Morhault," Elia said. "Happy Festival to you, too." The eruption of spontaneous well-wishing that followed made for somewhat comic dialogue, but it was heartfelt nonetheless.

It also kept them there long enough for some of the guests to stroll past the open archway between the foyer and great hall and to notice the new arrivals.


	22. Something Worth Defending

"Deane!" a girl squealed. A moment later, a young society lady launched herself at him. Her strikingly light blond hair was made even more striking by the bright orange lock that trailed back from her forehead over her right ear. "It's so good to see you again; I thought you'd left for stuffy old Nanza after the winter season!"

"Friend of yours?" Morhault inquired archly.

Deane managed to fend the girl off to arm's length.

"It's good to see you, too, Nessa. You look lovely in that gown." Now that her face wasn't buried in Deane's shoulder, Morhault could see that her blazing hair and ball gown had been chosen to match the color of her eyes.

"Well, I can't say the same about that waistcoat of yours. Don't you know that horizontal stripes are all the rage now?"

"I take back what I said before," Morhault decided.

"And your shirt...it looks like _daywear_, Deane," the girl added. "What _happened_ to you?"

"It _is_ daywear," he protested. "Our boat just came into port this afternoon. You don't think I'd wear a waistcoat like this for anything other than road dust, do you? You really should have more faith in me."

"I'm sorry, Deane," the girl said contritely. "I've just never seen you dressed..._rough_...before."

Tabren burst out laughing.

"Oh, but for Deane, that _is_ rough," a voice drawled. Two exquisitely dressed sprigs of nobility about Deane's age stood in the archway. Each wore nearly identical formal garb: white shirts with ruffled fronts and lace at the wrists, fancifully embroidered and brightly-hued waistcoats, dove-gray breeches, black low boots with polished buckles, and short capes. Dress swords, thankfully, were still out of style; sharp objects rarely mixed well with free-flowing liquor. Each man held a goblet of red wine, undoubtedly a first-class vintage. The speaker had mahogany-brown hair and wore green edged with gold, while his companion was a freckled redhead in blue and silver. "Indeed, I'm quite taken aback that the dust dared to touch him."

"Well, you see, Jannen, as you weren't there for comparison it wasn't able to properly appreciate how fine my taste is."

"You may have something, there, from the look of your female companions. Not merely our fair Nessa, but a new flower besides for us to back in her beauty." He indicated Elia with a slight motion of his glass.

Nessa hadn't really looked at Deane's companions before, but now that it was pointed out to her she could hardly miss that the man she'd wrapped her arms around a moment ago had entered the house in company with an exquisitely beautiful woman. Her face turned crimson with embarrassment as possible implications sank in.

Elia, for her part, glanced down uncomfortably. Jannen's wit had a bit too much bite to it; he put one in mind of an agarthin blossom, pretty to look at but rank-smelling if you got too close.

"By the Goddess, she is beautiful!" the redhead exclaimed. "I don't see how I could have missed such a fair charmer." He frowned thoughtfully--thought clearly requiring some effort for him--and added, "I don't know her, though, and I make a point of being introduced to every beauty who comes to the city. Is she some cousin just making her debut, Deane? You'd surely give your friends the first chance to meet her, wouldn't you?"

"Really, Kell, don't be so pushy," Jannen drawled. "After that speech I'm surprised she's not asking Deane _not_ to introduce us."

"What's wrong with telling a girl she's pretty?"

Jannen pretended to examine his fingernails.

"If that had been all you said, then there wouldn't be a problem."

"That _is_ all I said!" Kell retorted.

"Ah, but no. That may be all you meant to say, but you actually said much more."

"Could you repeat that?" Deane asked. "You lost me about three 'saids' ago."

"Excuse me," a feminine voice interrupted from behind the two noblemen, "but I couldn't help but notice all this activity at the door. Does everyone have a better party to go to?"

Jannen and Kell stepped aside to reveal an elegant lady in a simply cut, stylish gown of dark blue satin. Morhault guessed her age at a year or two over thirty, but her style of dress, choice of cosmetics, and emerald-green hair color tried hard to shave a decade off that. It was interesting; the dye job was as good as aristocratic money could buy yet Morhault could instantly tell that unlike Elia's, this woman's hair wasn't supposed to be jewel-toned. Like Nessa's, the hair color matched her eyes, which were the same green as Deane's and his father's.

"On the contrary, Leni," Kell said. "People aren't leaving; they're coming in."

"Oh?" She blinked. "Deane! When did you get here? Who are your friends? Why aren't you dressed for the party?" She looked Morhault over. "This isn't a masquerade ball, you know. That sword looks awfully real."

"It is real," he replied. "We didn't know there was a party here, Professor Carras; if we had, we wouldn't have blundered in."

"Oh, Goddess, please call me Leni. 'Professor Carras' makes me sound like an old lady." She rounded on Deane. "You didn't know there was a party? I sent you and Papa your invitations a month and a half ago! _He_ sent his regrets back at once, but _you_..." She sighed heavily and said, "Since you've brought friends, you're the only one who knows everyone, so why don't you introduce us?"

"Well, all right. Let's see, this is my sister Lenia Carras, and over there are Jannen Orale and Kell De Amidaros. Kell has the freckles. This is Nessa Thandari."

"It's about time you remembered I was here!" Nessa huffed.

"My friends are Elia, Tabren of Kyre, and Morhault the Fa--" He broke off suddenly as he came to the belated realization that people with infamous reputations didn't necessarily want attention called to them.

"Oh?" Jannen sneered. "The one and only Morhault the Fallen? The man who singlehandedly drowned the Stadius Zone in blood? What, have you come to start in on the western zones now?"

Morhault's hand made a quick, almost involuntary movement towards his sword-hilt before he could stop it.

"What? Thinking of challenging me?" the aristocrat taunted. "But wait--you're not a knight anymore, are you? Too bad, since of course commoners can't challenge their betters."

The urge to rip this overdressed little worm's barbed tongue out by the roots was nearly overpowering. Morhault's right hand closed into a fist and with a fraction less self-control it would teach Jannen's smirking face a lesson in how closely a notorious villain followed the formalities of dueling codes. He never got the chance. The crack of flesh on flesh echoed through the foyer, cutting like a knife through the faint strains of music filtering in from the ballroom.

Jannen lightly brushed the reddening imprint Elia's hand had left on his cheek.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed. "Morhault's done more good for more people in the past month than you've done or will do in your entire _life_, you...you worthless, overbred _fop_!"

Jannen's expression darkened, his anger rising to match hers.

"Really, now," Kell suggested diffidently, "the man's reputation is quite black, don't y'know."

Nessa tossed her elegantly coiffed head.

"I don't know what Deane was thinking, to keep company with his sort."

"Whereas I," Leni said, "can't think of how my brother's so-called friends could stand here and insult _his_ guest in _his_ home." She pressed her hand to her forehead. "I'll be a laughingstock for months if a fight breaks out at my Festival ball."

Kell scratched his head.

"Leni's got a point there, too. Be frightfully caddish to start kicking up a row on the Festival of Creation. Just not the thing."

Jannen and Nessa looked as Morhault as if he were something loathsome slithered up from the sewers. Elia kept her eyes on Jannen, apparently ready to hit him again if he so much as opened his mouth. Deane just looked uncomfortable, caught in the middle of a bad situation. The tension slowly eased as the three nobles followed Kell's suggestion and went back to the party, but it didn't raise anyone's spirits.

"This is going to spread all through society by the end of the night," Lenia moaned. "Anyone who didn't leave Meribia with the Governor is here. The gossip won't even have to wait for morning calls."

"I doubt Jannen will want to spread a story where he comes off second-best," Morhault said, flashing Elia a quick grin despite his frustration.

"Oh, not him. Gossip bores Jannen. So many things do. I was talking about Nessa...unless--Deane, why don't you go talk to her? She'll keep her own counsel if you ask her to."

Deane stared wide-eyed at his sister. Panic radiated from him.

"Leni, you wouldn't do that to me. I'm your own brother, for Althena's sake. Your only sibling!"

"Please?" Lenia wheedled. "You don't want the family name at the middle of a scandal, do you?"

Deane sighed, then straightened his shoulders.

"The things one must do for one's name. Do wish me luck; I'll most likely need it." He looked down at his clothes and shuddered. "I do hate to have to enter the ballroom in travel-wear, though." He strode bravely from the foyer with the air of a man facing certain doom.

"Nessa's such a fool," Lenia said, clucking her tongue.

"Oh?"

"She wants to marry Deane, but she's going about it all wrong. She nags him like girls do in stories and plays, but she doesn't understand that a woman can only do that _after_ they've established a relationship with a man. Then it can be a sign of love and affection, even a kind of friendly teasing. _Now_ it just makes her sound like an ill-tempered shrew, and you can see how Deane reacts."

"I'd thought they'd been betrothed since childhood or something, the way she went on," Morhault confirmed Lenia's point.

"No; they only met when Nessa made her debut last year."

She looked Morhault over assessingly.

"Morhault the Fallen," she mused. "I don't know which of the stories about you to believe, but I assume that Deane had a good reason for bringing you here. If you're going to kill anyone or commit any other heartless villainy, could you please wait until after the party, though?"

Lenia dashed back to her guests before anyone else could respond. Jarvis, whom no one had seen leave in all the confusion, returned at that moment to say that their rooms were ready. The mark of the truly excellent servant, after all, was timing.

-X X X-

There was something about a balcony, Morhault thought, that called to a person in an introspective mood. Perhaps looking down on the world helped to see it in a better perspective, which might have something to do with why the tower of the Goddess had originally stood on Lunar's highest peak. The view from the third-story room was only of the back garden, rather than all of Lunar, but it helped. The mingled perfumes of a dozen kinds of flower rose out of the greenery and teased the renegade's nostrils while he thought late into the night.

The placid imagery didn't help to calm him, though. Morhault seethed with an anger that bubbled and boiled just below the surface of his mind. Part of that rage was focused on Jannen, and Nessa, and even Kell and Lenia. Most, though, was self-directed. Ironically, it was for _being_ angry that he was most angry with himself.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked the silence. "Why did I get so mad at the opinions of a gaggle of useless highborns, whose most difficult moral choice is deciding whether or not to pass on the latest gossip?"

It was the second time he'd reacted like that lately. The first time, in Nota with Colonel Nathane, had been one thing. The man's insults had been unwarranted, beyond what could be expected and therefore a fair cause for emotion. Jannen, though, had just been parroting the same old slurs that Morhault had heard a thousand times before. It had been a long time since those kind of insults had been able to provoke him; he'd built up a tough skin over ten years. Especially since in this case they came from someone he had no respect for. Jannen's opinion of him was meaningless, but it had affected him like those first taunts and jeers had a decade ago.

That one, overriding question had kept him awake, had driven Morhault out the window into the night air. _Why?_ It had burned in his mind for hours, destroying any feeling of ease he'd tried to build. He saw the vision of Elia standing up for him, her defiance in the face of Jannen's insults so unlike her usual shyness. There was Tabren, his face tight with anger just as it had been at the garrison in Nota when Nathane had made his accusations. Morhault smiled, thinking of Jyrian's camaraderie, of his friendly banter with Edric, of Deane and Halan. Lil and Beldar and Ailera. When was the last time he had spent a whole month in the company of people who believed in him unconditionally, who would take _his_ side when his past inevitably became an issue?

To them he wasn't the man who'd set southeastern Lunar on course for a three-year bloodbath, not the disgraced knight fallen from the ranks of heroes, not the oathbreaker who'd forsworn his duty. He was their companion and ally, even their friend.

It was odd, he reflected, how resilient the human spirit was. He'd spent years accustoming himself to the slings and arrows of all ranks of people, those he respected and those he did not. He'd grown used to them, painfully aware that a man who'd lost his honor had no right to insist that he had not. Yet after a single month of being treated like a person who was worth something, he was reacting to insults like he was one.

Morhault smiled into the night, his grin ironic and a bit sheepish. There was a lesson there somewhere. Maybe it was time to learn it. There were two sides to humility, after all. Everyone knew the one side, not to see one's self as better than others, because regardless of race, social position, wealth, reputation, or past deeds everyone faced the same choices each day: good or evil, kind or cruel, just or unjust, honest or deceitful. No matter what sins one had committed in the past, each new day presented a fresh chance to do right or wrong.

The other side of that, though, was that no one should _undervalue_ himself, either. Pride and despair were mirror images, two sides of the same sin, which was a lack of humility. Morhault had understood this in his head, but not in his soul. Not until then, when he realized just how much he'd been looking to the opinions of others to define himself.

"I believe in what I did," he told the night wind softly. "It wasn't a perfect choice, and it definitely didn't have perfect consequences, but I still think it was right. From now on, I'll try harder to remember that."


	23. New Direction

"After that, we left the matter in the hands of Chief Magistrate Carras," Jyrian concluded her report. "He seemed more than capable of handling the immediate problem, especially with High Priestess Ailera's backing. They make an impressive team."

Vice-Premier Sethan regarded her impassively. The senior official of the Magic Guild in Meribia had been that way the whole time Jyrian had been talking, showing no surprise and neither pleasure nor dismay.

"Is that a complete summary of your experiences, Jyrian?"

"As close as I can make it."

"Hmm."

Sethan stroked his chin thoughtfully. The Vice-Premier was in his mid-fifties and like a storybook wizard had grown a long, full beard that reached to the bottom of his breastbone. Unlike those wizards he was neither slender and frail nor fat. He was a full-blooded beastman, with long, tufted ears and a light coating of bronze fur on his exposed skin, and he had the broad shoulders and stocky, muscular body of his forefathers. His usual impassive manner gave the lie to tales of hot-blooded, emotional beastmen; that plus the sheer solidity of his presence gave him the nickname "the Statue" among the apprentices.

The Guildhall matched its master well; it was a strong, square, gray stone edifice that, at least on the outside, could have passed for the keep of a small castle. This made it stick out like a sore thumb on Black Rose Street, which reveled in the exotic and mysterious atmosphere created by the magicians and magic shops lining it. Similarly, the interior spoke of wealth, power, and tradition, with wood-paneled walls hung with tapestries and paintings, parquet floors polished to a high gloss, and libraries and private rooms outfitted to impress visitors with the Magic Guild's influence.

Sethan's study, where he'd received Jyrian, was exactly that kind of room, everything in it calculated to suggest to visiting Meribian aristocrats and merchants that it belonged to an organization on or above their level and therefore worthy of their respect. The fireplace was large, but not so big as that in the great hall of a fortress. The carpet was thick, luxurious, and expensive, but in muted colors. The furniture was all in matching dark wood: the huge desk, the bookcases, the velvet-cushioned chairs, and the well-stocked sideboard. There were none of the crumbling grimoires, reagent vials, or ornate and arcane objects hinting at lost legends or ancient curses that people associated with wizardry. These, to the extent they were present in the Guildhall at all, were kept in the laboratory.

Jyrian didn't like the study and she didn't like the Guildhall. She hated how everything was carefully chosen to be just so, the perfect model of a Meribian guildhall. In her opinion, the largest headquarters of the Magic Guild outside of Vane ought to have something..._magical_ about it. Of course, she understood that it was intentionally planned. One walked onto Black Rose Street and was immersed in the atmosphere of magic. One arrived at the Guildhall and got down to business.

"There have been hints that the Barrier Guard was up to something more active recently than the usual bandit suppression, but we had no way of knowing the specifics," Sethen told Jyrian.

"You have agents keeping tabs on the Meribian army?"

Sethen shrugged.

"Information from all sources is vital to the Guild's ability to achieve its aims."

"You make it sound like we're some merchant house spying on its competition, or a gang of political plotters manipulating governments behind the scenes."

The Vice-Premier's bushy brows seemed to become one as his scowl pulled them together; Jyrian must have hit a nerve.

"For Althena's sake, Jyrian, it's not like I've got spies planted in the army. One of our magicians was traveling in the area, noticed that something unusual was happening, and thought she ought to tell someone."

"Then why didn't you just say that? After working with Notan military intelligence and dealing with political conspiracies, I'm getting really tired of people talking in euphemisms. Damn, Sethen, I wonder if living and working in this merchant's house has made you forget you're a magician!"

"That just isn't so!" he snapped.

"You even talk like a merchant. 'Information from all sources,' indeed! Not to mention 'achieve its aims.' Whatever happened to the man who told a certain Level Two apprentice that a magician of the Guild has only two duties in using her magic, to her own conscience and to the Goddess?"

Sethen groaned.

"You always had a talent for making me angry, Jyrian."

She flashed him a grin.

"That's why you loved me, because I could always touch your emotions instead of just your mind."

"It's also why I fell _out_ of love with you," he noted. "Sometimes I don't want to just go by how I feel. When we were together I was always reacting to the moment instead of thinking and choosing a course."

"This is going somewhere, isn't it?" Jyrian suddenly realized. Sethen had given up arguing with her for argument's sake seven years ago when he'd given _her_ up. She snapped her fingers. "There really _is_ some kind of Guild plan, isn't there?"

"Yes," he told her. "The Guildmistress herself believes that something is very wrong in the world, something directly related to magic and therefore falling squarely within our purview. From your story, you've already had experiences along those lines."

"Now you're the one stirring up my emotions, specifically curiosity. You're telling me the Burning Hand is up to more than we've already stumbled over?"

"First, there are two people you need to meet."

He pressed a hidden switch under the lip of his desk. An apprentice entered the study almost at once.

"Yes, Vice-Premier?"

"Please ask my guests if they would join us."

"At once, Vice-Premier."

Sethen steepled his forefingers.

"I said that this fell within our purview, but we're not the only people. It's not a political matter, so we can't count on any particular government helping out, but there are others who, like the Magic Guild, are interested in doing the right thing for its own sake."

Jyrian smiled wryly.

"Provocative rhetoric, Sethen. Now I'm _really_ interested."

"I thought it was a pretty little speech, myself," he admitted laconically.

The door swung open and the apprentice ushered two people into the room. They were dressed identically, in white shirts and breeches beneath a sleeveless red tunic that came to just past the hips. Their black leather boots and belts were polished to a high gloss, and heavy double-edged daggers hung at their waists. The clothes suggested a uniform and in fact were one, a uniform completed by the lionhead badges worn on chains around their necks, the woman's in gold and the man's steel. The two of them were Lion Knights of Ilan.

"Damosel Tiara, Sir Wrayburne," Sethen said, "allow me to present Master Jyrian of my Guild."

Jyrian rose politely from her seat.

"A pleasure," she said.

"Our honor," Tiara replied, instantly recognizing Jyrian's name.

"Jyrian," Sethen finished the introduction, "this is Damosel Tiara, a Commander of the Order of Lion Knights of Ilan, and Sir Wrayburne, a knight of that order."

If Jyrian correctly recalled what she'd been taught about the Lion Knights' protocol, Tiara's rank was one step short of the Grand Master of that order, though there were a number of other Knight-Commanders, a total of eight or ten or some other nice round number.

"Sit down, please," Sethen invited. "Jyrian is going to be assisting us in tracing the source of our mutual problem."

The three of them sat.

"Jyrian had been assisting the government of Nota in rooting out a scheme put forward by the Burning Hand, a scheme reaching into the highest corridors of power in Notan and Meribian government to incite a war that would serve no purpose but to help advance the Vile Tribe's lackeys to positions of power."

Sethen, Jyrian reflected, had a definite fondness for a well-turned phrase.

"That can't be true!" Wrayburne exclaimed. In his mid-thirties, with nondescript brown hair and a bristly moustache, the knight had half-leapt from his chair in shock. "The Burning Hand are madmen and fanatics. What would decent people of rank and responsibility want with them?"

Tiara made a face.

"Sit down, Wrayburne," she stated flatly. "Power has always been a lure, and those who already have some are often the most eager for more."

The Knight-Commander was a study in contrasts. Nature had blessed, or perhaps cursed, Tiara with a face and figure suitable for an expensive courtesan. The soft curves of her body, though, had been sharpened to hard lines by years of training at arms, and gloriously flame-red hair, a perfect complement to her bronze skin, had been pulled back severely into a utilitarian braid. She wore no cosmetics or adornments at all besides her rank-badge, not even an earring. The result was an impression of personal choices at war with physical characteristics that badly blunted the effects of both. Jyrian also suspected that Tiara didn't care a whit that she'd sacrificed beauty and would think anyone who did was a low-grade idiot. This was not a woman who would shave any of her forty-plus years off her age out of vanity.

"Is the matter disposed of?" she asked Jyrian.

"Essentially, though the cleanup work is still under way."

"Then there's no point in making you tell the whole story over unless it becomes relevant," Tiara concluded. "No doubt you're bored to tears telling it, anyway."

"You've evidently made a report or two yourself," Jyrian said wryly.

"Oh, yes. Usually to two or three different superiors in succession."

"Frankly," Sethen said, "I made the point largely to illustrate the extent of the Burning Hand's activities, given that a scheme of this nature is merely an adjunct of their true plans."

"Seizing control of Lunar's two largest cities is a _secondary_ goal? What to?" Jyrian asked incredulously. It was Tiara who answered.

"How about the power of the Four Dragons?"

For once Jyrian was speechless.

"About three months ago there was an attack on the manor of a minor landholder in the Marius Zone, near the Barrier," Tiara explained. "It looked like an ordinary assault by a rival landowner, one of those little squabbles that crop up from time to time around Reza. During the confusion, however, someone broke into the manor's treasure vault and made off with an heirloom a brigand ancestor of the lordling had picked up a few generations ago."

"A brigand _ancestor_?" Jyrian remarked. "I thought all those landholdings were handed out from Reza to high-ranking Thieves Guild members." Wrayburne grunted agreement and Tiara smiled faintly.

"Be that as it may, the thieves found themselves in possession of Eairon's Falcon."

"Eairon? Do you mean Eairon the Mad?" Jyrian asked. Sethen made a little choking noise in the back of his throat. "Sorry. Eairon _Ausa_, I mean. The one who wrote the Scarlet Grimoire?"

"How do you know of that book?" Wrayburne snapped. "It has been sealed in the Forbidden Library of the Citadel of the Lion for nearly two centuries!"

"Um...no offense, Sir Wrayburne, but I'm a Master of the Magic Guild of Vane, it's one of the most notorious books on magic ever written, and it's by the black sheep of the family of the Guildmistresses. I'd have to be trying hard _not_ to have heard of it."

Tiara gave her subordinate a "don't-embarrass-me-in-public" look. The man's naivete, Jyrian decided, was more appropriate for someone Tabren's age than a grown adult and a belted knight.

"Yes, it is the same man, Master Jyrian," Tiara confirmed.

"Can we drop all the 'Masters' and 'Damosels' and so on? If we're going to be working together, all the formality could get a little clumsy."

Tiara smiled at her.

"I'd prefer it that way myself, Jyrian." She folded her hands in her lap. "Do you know why Eairon's Falcon is important?"

Jyrian shook her head.

"I haven't got a clue. I've never heard of it before--which is odd, given my earlier point."

"Would that no one had," Sethen intoned. "It's a guide that with the proper incantations can be used to seek out Eairon's most priceless treasure. It's the key to recovering the lost Dragon Auras."

Jyrian's mouth sagged open.

"Dragon Auras? I thought that was just a myth!"

"The Church would like people to think that," Sethen told her, "and they're right. The Four Dragons are the servants of the Goddess; in the hands of mortals their power would do unspeakable harm. Eairon Ausa stole the Dragon Auras within a generation of the fall of the last Dragonmaster, and no one has ever been able to find them."

Jyrian shook her head in disbelief.

"The Dragon Auras in the hands of the Vile Tribe...It would be the Magic Emporer all over again, and no Dragonmaster Alex to rescue us."

"Now you see our problem," Tiara said wryly.

"I'm still missing most of the story. How was the theft traced to the Burning Hand, anyway?"

"One of our knights was there--we tend to keep a close eye on things around Reza; it keeps the banditry to tolerable levels--and he was the one who realized the attack seemed too well-targeted to be just a general raid. Aware that the attackers were after something specific, he made a close investigation and discovered evidence that black magic was involved."

Jyrian nodded.

"How did we, meaning the Magic Guild, come into the picture?"

"Sir Feldon was told that the stolen heirloom was a relic of Eairon the Mad and figured that your Guild would be the best place to ask what the falcon might be and why the Burning Hand would want it."

"And the rest just sort of fell into place."

"More or less."

Tiara smiled thinly.

"Now, here's where it gets interesting. We picked up the trail of the raiders in the Stadius Zone; the band had joined up with a Tamur trade caravan."

"What were they doing so far east?"

The Knight-Commander shrugged.

"I don't know. Possibly they were bringing the falcon to their leader? No one knows where the Vile Tribe remains, but if their base is in the Madoria Plains region, perhaps in an abandoned stronghold of the Frontier, then the course would make sense. Or perhaps Eairon's Vault is in the Stadius Zone?"

"All right, so what happened then?"

"It turns out that they'd made a poor choice of traveling companions. Apparently the caravan master had incurred some kind of blood feud with a Prairie Tribe chief, and it caught up with him. A pitched battle involving over two hundred people ensued, and the cultists were caught up in the fight just to stay alive."

Tiara smiled again.

"A day later, a traveling priest happened by the battle site, offering aid. While he was there, he apparently discovered what the cult members were and that the falcon was important, because he stole it."

Jyrian drummed her fingers on her knee, thinking.

"This is getting a little confusing. How do you know all this?"

"The Lion Knights caught up to the remains of the caravan a few days after that. The healthier cultists had gone on, but two of the more seriously injured had been abandoned. We asked them questions, and didn't worry too much about being polite while asking. The traders, too, weren't happy about being used by the Burning Hand and were more than glad to tell what they knew."

"You're sure the priest didn't just steal Eairon's Falcon for himself?" Jyrian asked.

"We're certain he didn't. The way he acted, the things he said, even the impressions the cultists formed of him suggest that he's an honest servant of the Goddess."

"Did he deliver the falcon to the Church?"

Adept Sethan shook his head.

"No. He knows that the Burning Hand is after him, and he can't afford to come out in the open. He has to get the falcon to safety, and that basically means to bring it to Althena's Shrine here in the Katarina Zone."

Jyrian mulled that over.

"Maybe, but it also leaves him all alone if the Burning Hand does manage to find him."

"Which way would you play it?"

"Alone," Jyrian admitted. "I'd rather have the freedom to act, and I'd go crazy if I was stuck in a room full of guards. Besides, if it were me in his place, I'd want to bring the falcon to the main shrine personally rather than letting someone else whose ability and judgment I'm unsure of assume my responsibility."

"That's a strong impulse," Wrayburne agreed, "but as a priest, just as a knight, one must show obedience to superiors."

"Then I wouldn't give my superiors the chance to order me to do otherwise. Besides, there are all kinds of those nasty composite bows on and near the Prairie, and walking up to the shrine in Tamur is an invitation for the cultists to start shooting them."

Sethen leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers again.

"So what do you think Father Alynd would do, Jyrian? I'm interested in seeing whether your reasoning agrees with ours."

"Isn't this a little too important to be playing riddle games?" Jyrian said dryly. She wished she knew Morhault's trick of arching one eyebrow; it would have gone perfectly just then.

The Vice-Premier lived up to his nickname, neither speaking nor changing his expression. Jyrian sighed.

"Alynd...that's a Prairie Tribe name, isn't it?"

"Yes," Tiara provided.

"In that case, I'd take the first ship I could to Meribia. This is the world's most cosmopolitan city, whereas a Prairie Tribesman would stick out like a sore thumb if he tried to go by land either through the Marius Zone or the Madoria Plains. The more attention he attracts, the more of the wrong kind of attention he could attract."

"That's the way we saw it," Tiara agreed. "Based on the shipping records, the vessel Father Alynd most likely took, the _Venturer_, docked this afternoon. We need you to find him and help him."

"Good idea. Why me?" She actually had a pretty good idea of what that answer would be.

"You're Jyrian Mageborn," Tiara said, spreading her hands helplessly. "Your reputation is above reproach, and it's a _personal_ reputation. The Lion Knights' reputation is for the organization as a whole; for all Father Alynd knows any individual knight might be another Morhault. The same goes for the Magic Guild, or even the Church."

"I was afraid you'd say something like that. Oh, well, it's about time my reputation did me some good, because whether it's me or someone else giving it this priest of yours needs all the help he can get."


	24. She Really Is a Professor

"Do you mean that you came all the way to Meribia just to see _me_?" Lenia Carras exclaimed. "I didn't realized that I was becoming famous." She beamed happily. "You didn't have to come across town to the university, though. I spent the night at the townhouse after the party. I'd have been glad to talk to you there and save you the trip."

"We might have asked, if you hadn't already left by the time we woke up," Morhault said, somewhat in awe of her ability to rise, dress, and eat all before seven after a party that had lasted until three in the morning.

"Deane always was a sleepyhead."

"Mornings," her brother remarked archly, "are things one should hear about, not experience firsthand."

Leni ignored him.

"Now, what seems to be the problem?"

Elia didn't speak up for herself, so after a moment Morhault answered for her.

"It's Elia. She's lost her memory."

"Be more specific. All of it? Just a certain period of time? Only some aspects? Personal memories, or general, or both?"

Morhault began to explain the characteristics, but Lenia immediately cut him off.

"No, you tell me," she said to Elia. "I want everything in your own words, since you're the only one who knows what your thoughts and feelings actually are."

Her voice was suddenly cool and professional, not at all light and girlish any more. Apparently it was a trait shared by the Carras siblings, their ordinarily unfocused minds becoming completely intent when dealing with their one pet interest.

"I...I can't remember anything about myself, or my life."

"Is Elia your real name?"

"Yes...I do remember that, at least."

Leni frowned thoughtfully.

"You do remember about language, food, clothing, that sort of thing, though, correct?"

"Oh, yes. It seems that it's only my life I've forgotten."

"Is that so...How far back do you remember?"

"To about a month ago. My first memories are of waking up in a bed in the inn in Kyre."

Through skillful questioning, Leni continued to elicit details of Elia's condition, scribbling down notes with a quill pen as she did. She explored how the azure-haired magician was regaining her magical skills and the various times at which she remembered unusual information, like in High Priestess Ailera's office.

"So you're able to remember facts and skills when you're confronted with a relevant stress situation," she concluded, "and you retain that knowledge afterwards, but you still can't put it into any kind of context--where you learned a spell, for example, or when you've cast it before. Is that an accurate summation?"

Elia nodded.

"All right, so let's go into the circumstances. You said that you woke up at an inn in Kyre. Do you three know anything about what went before?"

"Not me," Deane said. "At least, not personally. I mean, I've been _told_ about it, but I wasn't actually there and Morhault and Tabren were, so--"

"You're not getting paid by the word," Leni interrupted him.

"I wish I was, considering how many times Father's told me that. And now _you're_ starting it, too!" he accused.

Elia laughed.

"Oh, good, laughter," Lenia exclaimed. "Amnesia is often accompanied by depression, which of course just gets in the way of trying to reach a solution. But, now I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, so why don't you two, Morhault and Tabren, tell me what you know about Elia's past."

"The problem is, we don't know much. We only met her a little while before that," Morhault explained. "Actually, 'met' isn't really the right word. You see, one of my old enemies and a few thugs were trying to force Tabren to tell him where I was, what I was up to, and so on. I decided to step in and generally interfere with his efforts, so the fight was almost inevitable."

"Was Elia a bystander?"

"Not quite. Krasek, my enemy, had a conjuror with him who was trying to summon up the usual horrors to do me in."

Tabren interrupted, chuckling, "Only the spell blew up in his face. Literally!"

"So when the dust cleared and everyone still alive picked themselves up, instead of a pack of razor lions the conjuror had summoned up Elia, and unconscious, besides."

"We brought Elia back to my aunt's inn and called a healer for her, and when she woke up, she couldn't remember anything."

Lenia sighed.

"Oh, why did there have to be magic involved? It makes everything so unpredictable."

Elia's face fell.

"You can't help me, then?"

"Well, I can't snap my fingers and cure you, if that's what you mean. The good news is, I'm fairly certain that your problems weren't caused by any physical injury. Did Beldar tell you about that?" Elia nodded. "Good. A brain injury could literally destroy memories, but as long as your head is all right, they should still be _there_ even if you can't access them."

She paused thoughtfully, then continued.

"Sometimes, a person's lost memory will suddenly return all at once, but they'll lose the memories from what happened while they had amnesia. Other times, memory comes back in bits and pieces, but might not ever be fully recovered. You seem more like you fit the second pattern. If it wasn't for the magic, I'd suspect that you were the victim of some strong emotional shock, which your mind is trying to hide from."

Lenia threw up her hands in sudden exasperation.

"What I don't know is whether the portal that brought you to Kyre was just the end result of that emotional situation, whether passing through it is itself the cause of the shock, or whether it did something magical to you that simulates the effect of 'normal' memory loss!"

"Does this mean that you can't help me?" Elia asked plaintively.

Lenia shook her head sadly.

"I wish I could. Unfortunately, this isn't like a street-corner puppet show, where one blow to the head causes amnesia and the next cures it. The best I can advise is for you to continue seeking out stress situations, where you're forced to act without thinking. Your 'mental reflexes,' that is to say your subconscious mind, seems to remember things well enough. _Don't_ try to force yourself to remember; it probably wouldn't work and the failure would just make you miserable. And, of course, you should consult an expert on conjury to determine what effect being magically transported could have on you. I'd suggest starting on Black Rose Street, since the Magic Guild of Vane has its largest presence there outside Vane itself."

Mention of the Magic Guild made Morhault think of Jyrian, and from there his mind turned to Geldoth's disappearance from the old mill in Nota. That was a second example of people being magically transported in ways that didn't apparently follow the "rules." Was there a connection there?

_Come to think of it, does anyone really know where conjured monsters come from?_ So many of them were completely different from the run-of-the-mill monsters one encountered in the wild. Was it possible they came from somewhere other than Lunar? If so, what did that mean about Elia? His mind reeled from the metaphysical and theological implications of that.

"I can," Lenia added, "give you some advice about right now, though. The real difficulty with amnesia isn't in trying to get your past life back, it's in trying to make your current life, well, _liveable_."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Well, the problem is, Elia, that people in your condition are prone to depression. Your feelings are bound to be a bit off-kilter as it is; after all, something very bad has happened to you. There's bound to be perfectly justifiable resentment, frustration, and sorrow, even grief at losing a part of yourself. You're very lucky, because you've been able to surround yourself with staunch friends, and better yet friends who didn't know you beforehand and so don't have their own emotional baggage. Lots of people don't like to be alone, anyway, and it's even harder for an amnesia victim because it's almost like there's less of you to be alone with. Which is why," Lenia said, sweeping her gaze across Morhault, Deane, and Tabren, "I've let the three of you sit in on this consultation. Ordinarily I'd consider it none of your business, but you need to understand as much as you can about what Elia is going through so you can give her the support she needs."

The professor paused to brush her green-dyed hair out of her eyes. Last night, the color had seemed to suit her perfectly, accenting her appearance as a social butterfly. Today, though, it jarred; the implied frivolity clashed awkwardly with the steady, measured voice of a scholar expressing ideas no one on Lunar had before thought to put into words.

It was almost unnerving, Morhault thought, the way both of the Carras siblings could be so flighty and scatterbrained, yet geniuses on one single topic. Althena's blessings were sometimes a mystery.

"There's more to it than that," Lenia continued. "The feelings I just mentioned are rational; anyone can understand why Elia would feel them. The problem is, there may be _irrational_ feelings that emerge as well."

Elia let out a gasp.

"Let's say, for example, that you come face-to-face with someone you absolutely loathe, but whom you don't remember. You might, because as I suggested your memories aren't _gone_, just locked away in your heart, suddenly be gripped with anger and rage and not know _why_. Or, perhaps, you'll see something that reminds you of a lost love or the death of a loved one, and feel a terrible sadness that you can't trace to a cause. I'd think most of us would be quite unnerved to be suddenly overcome by powerful emotions we can't understand. I'm not saying this _will_ happen, only that it may and that you should be ready to comprehend it."

"At least I'll know that I'm not going mad," Elia said glumly, the thought of what might come clearly disappointing her.

"There is one other thing," Lenia added, perhaps moved by Elia's dejected face to offer some thread of hope. "If you can find out what the magical factors affecting you are, if any, then I might be able to make a more precise mundane diagnosis."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Half the problem in understanding amnesia lies in finding out what happened to the patient...which isn't easy, since the patient by definition doesn't remember. I've never heard of a magician conjuring up people before, so I can't really do more than guess at how that would affect your mind. You aren't here for guesses, though."

"Well, that's honest at least," Elia said. "I know that a lot of people in your place would have lied or used a long, fancy speech full of words I've never heard to make themselves look better. I appreciate you being truthful and direct with me."

Lenia waved a hand airily.

"Oh, that's all right. I've always thought it was silly for healers to keep back what they knew or didn't know about a patient's illness. I mean, I don't think there's a market for diagnoses out there. They're not even pretty like gold or diamonds, so why hoard them? Besides, I don't need to play games to inflate my reputation with you; I'm the best there is in this field." She made the last comment without the slightest bit of either pompous arrogance or self-mockery, but flatly as if reciting a known fact.

"I thought you were surprised that we'd come to see you," Tabren wondered.

"I was! I mean, I know that I'm good at my studies, but most people I know see my work only as a kind of eccentric hobby."

"That's because you spend most of your time hanging around people like your brother," Morhault speculated.

"I say!"

"You know, you might be right," Lenia said happily. "I might have a wonderful professional reputation and never even have heard about it." She tapped her finger against her lower lip. "Why, that might explain why Professor Gordon has been so surly these past couple of months."

Elia laughed despite what must have been very unsettled emotions, and got to her feet.

"Thank you for your help, Leni, and for spending so much of your time on me."

"Oh, not at all, I only wish I could have helped more. Besides, if I can help you get your memory back, maybe you'll remember how you got that _wonderful_ hair. Will I see you tonight?"

Elia nodded.

"Definitely. I think we'll take your advice and consult the Magic Guild." With a sudden show of insecurity she glanced over at Morhault and said, "If that's all right?"

"This is your quest," he said. "If you want to stay in Meribia, then we'll stay in Meribia."

"Excellent!" Deane commended the fallen knight. "I've been rusticating for much too long as it is."

"Oh, I agree," his sister teased. "You've spent so much time away from the city recently that you're sadly lacking in town bronze. Your waistcoat, for example. Why, that shade of mauve is at least two months out of fashion."

Deane gasped.

"Leni, you can't be serious!"

Giggling, she replied, "No, I'm only teasing. You're in the first stare of fashion, as always."

The nobleman gave a tremendous sigh of relief.

"Thank Althena! Leni, don't scare me like that!"

Tabren looked disgustedly at Morhault.

"I was hoping she _wasn't_ kidding."

"Don't feel too down about it," Morhault advised. "Even if she had been, the one thing you can count on about the fashions of the nobility is that whenever a style becomes passe, whatever replaces it will be even more outrageous."


	25. Danger on the Wing

After taking their leave of Lenia Carras, Morhault's group went out onto the University grounds. The University of Meribia was basically rectangular in shape, with a five-acre park surrounded by buildings that looked like small, stately manor houses but which were undoubtedly classrooms, libraries, research laboratories, student dormitories, and filled the other needs of an educational institution. Scholars and students dressed in a wide variety of fashions dashed by on the meandering paths that wound through the lightly wooded park.

"What do they study here?" Tabren asked.

"Everything," Deane said. The boy glanced at him, thinking he was being flippant, but Morhault quickly corrected that impression.

"No, he's right. The University of Meribia's mission, dating back to its founding in the reign of Mel de Alkirk, is to gather, record, perpetuate, and build upon the sum total of human knowledge. Literature, art, architecture, theology, history, mathematics, law, medicine, biology, alchemy, and engineering are all studied here."

"Wow! Do...do you have to be a noble to be a student?"

"No," Deane told him. "The University is open to anyone. There are even scholarships offered for promising but indigent students."

"Are you thinking of enrolling here, Tabren?" Elia asked.

"Well..." he began, suddenly a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess I was thinking about that. I suppose you need a good education before they'll let you in, though."

Morhault would have guessed the same thing, but apparently that wasn't the case, at least not according to Deane.

"Not at all. Literacy is vital, of course, but as I understand it one of the programs is essentially a generalized basic education course for the younger or less-schooled students to give them the foundation for an advanced course of study, up to three years--or was it four? Leni can be so dreadfully vague sometimes. I can't think where she gets it from."

For some reason which Deane couldn't quite fathom, everyone else seemed to find his last comment hilarious. Oddly enough, though, the laughter served a practical purpose. When Elia threw back her head to laugh, she did something that people rarely do. She looked up.

"What are those?" she asked, pointing at several black shapes circling in the air. They were much too large for birds.

"I don't know, but I don't like it," Morhault said. "They're not coming this way, though, so I'm not sure we should get involved."

"Oh! They're diving!"

She was right; one after the other the winged shapes plunged down, descending towards the far end of the park. Moments later, flashes of blue light shone through the trees.

"That did it," Morhault sighed, drawing his sword. He glanced at Elia, who nodded her agreement. She was technically his employer, after all, and running off to poke into random problems might be considered against her interests, but she seemed more eager to get involved than he was. Tabren and Deane, predictably, were right on their heels as they sprinted towards the source of the light.

Worry nagged at the back of Morhault's mind as they neared the area. They hadn't come prepared for battle in the middle of the city; _he'd_ brought his sword and gauntlet because mercenary bodyguards as a rule never went anywhere unprepared but had left his mail coat behind, and the others had only their ordinary belt daggers. They'd be less effective and very vulnerable.

Unfortunately, battle would be precisely what was needed, from the look of things. The black shapes Elia had spotted proved close up to be monsters of a type Morhault had never seen. Humanoid in shape, they possessed hugely powerful torsos and arms combined with short, almost stunted legs on which they hopped more than truly walked. Each hand was four-fingered and looked something like a raptor's claw, with curving, sickle-shaped talons. Their faces were bestial, snouted and tusked, their entire bodies covered in thick, coarse black fur, and short, batlike wings that shouldn't have been able to support their weight protruded from their shoulders.

The blue light shone from a palely coruscating dome that surrounded a single man. Every so often, one of the beasts would hurl itself against the barrier, the light would flash more intensely, and the creature would stagger back, its flesh and fur smoking where it had made contact with the dome. They would do this in complete silence; the beasts did not bellow cries of rage or anger, nor did they whimper or scream in pain when injured. Indeed, they did not so much as grunt, growl, or breathe heavily, which was most unnerving of all.

Though it was hard to see through the translucent radiance of the barrier, the man appeared to be of the Prairie Tribe, to judge by the cut of his leathers and long, braided hair. His hands held a plain wood staff upright before him, and sweat ran down his cheeks to mingle with his beard.

It took no more than a moment for Morhault to absorb these details, which was all the time he had because the creatures saw the new arrivals almost as soon as the group saw them. Two turned and lunged at the lightly-armored companions while the remaining three continued to try and break through the tribesman's barrier.

One beast charged directly at Morhault, claws outstretched. Its muzzle twisted and frothed as if snarling, but no sound emerged. The fallen knight swung his bastard sword, the heavy blade sweeping out, and the monster paused in its charge, hesitating slightly at the threat of nearly four feet of steel. It wasn't enough of a flinch to actually get it to halt its rush, but it did leave its lunging body off-balance in its attack. Morhault checked his swung, turned his blade, and thrust. The creature's weak legs and unnatural, hopping movement left it unable to stop its fall, and its own weight and momentum did as much as the sharp swordpoint and the warrior's strong arms to drive Morhault's sword into its chest and out again between its wings. Noxious green ichor spurted from the wound, but the monster did not die. It continued to fight forward weakly, dragging itself even further up the blade while reaching out with its claws.

Before the monster could get its talons into Morhault, the renegade raised one foot and slammed it against the beast's chest. Its weak legs did it a disservice again, as not only couldn't it keep from being forced away, but when Morhault pulled his sword free it toppled over onto its back. Another blow from the mercenary cleft its skull.

Elia, meanwhile, had faced the second beast with magic. Extending one hand, she spoke two soft words, made a quick gesture, and sent a tiny burst of flame to explode against its chest. The flame spell did little apparent damage, but it did stagger the beast, and she followed it up with another, then another. In that moment, Tabren and Deane struck from either side, the boy living up to the lessons Morhault had given him while the foppish noble's blow was surprisingly hard and effective. Both Tabren's sturdy knife and Deane's gem-encrusted stiletto struck again and again, making certain that the creature had no time to gather its strength and fight back before it was dead.

Moving quickly, Morhault strode forward and hacked at the back of one of the remaining monsters. The last two were knocked away from the barrier once more, and the tribesman took his chance. He raised his staff, and the light of his defenses shrank in on themselves, coalescing into a single, intense point of radiance. He leveled the staff at one of the beasts and the light exploded outward again at a word of command. It swept outward like a wave of brilliant azure, seeming to erode down to nothing the monster caught in its path.

Sweat was pouring down Elia's face, but she merely wiped the perspiration from her eyes on the back of her sleeve and cast her spell again, jolting one of the last two beasts with flame. The Prairie Tribesman struck quickly, again abetting his own rescue, cracking his staff across the back of the creature's knees. Its own weight carried it over onto its back, and the man slammed the iron-shod butt of his staff down onto its face with brutal effectiveness.

Morhault, meanwhile, had never given the last monster a chance to recover from his first attack; it fell under repeated strokes. Attacking from behind might not have been chivalrous, but neither were five-to-one odds, and after all, he _was_ a notorious villain.

"What _were_ those things?" Tabren exclaimed.

"I don't know," Deane replied, "but they seem intent on having their revenge on my second-best boots!" Already, the five corpses were starting to collapse in on themselves, dissolving into stinking pools of greenish-brown goo. Deane lightly skipped out of the way, keeping any of the slime from getting on his footwear.

"They're winged grues," Elia answered, which caused all three of her friends to look at her in surprise. The man they'd rescued, though, just nodded.

"Creatures spawned of sorcery."

"So they were sent by a conjuror?" Morhault asked. Both Elia and the stranger shook their heads.

"No, these are minions of the Vile Tribe's cursed powers, not common conjury," the tribesman said.

"They're created from a powerful _mazoku_'s life essence," Elia agreed, the magician providing the technical details of magic. "They 'live' and 'die' as shadows of their creator, with their life span limited by the magic put into them, unlike conjured monsters, which appear to be actual creatures."

"So this 'false life' is why they collapsed into goop after death?"

The two magic-wielders nodded.

"Winged grues are superb trackers, but prefer to fight from the air, where their weak legs are no disadvantage."

Morhault didn't need to ask why they'd fought on the ground during the battle; the shock of hitting the tribesman's mystic barrier would have knocked them from the sky on their initial swoop.

Stroking his short, neatly-trimmed beard, the stranger continued, "Be that as it may, I owe you a debt of thanks for saving me. I doubt I'd have been able to stand them off alone."

"You were doing pretty well," Morhault said, "and kept on doing so. Two of them fell at your hand."

"Only because you gave me the opportunity. My defenses were adequate, yes, but without your intervention I'd have had no chance to do anything else but maintain the mystic shield, and sooner or later I'd have tired."

"In that case, you're welcome."

"I say," Deane piped up, "if I followed you correctly, this means that one of the Vile Tribe sent those monsters after you!"

He sounded almost elated, probably because he might get a chance to try out his crossbow after all. Morhault didn't share his excitement, though. He'd gone his entire life without butting heads with the Vile Tribe, and now it was twice in just over a month. It didn't feel right, not at all.

"That's what it sounded like to me, too. What has them after you...?" He left the question hanging, prompting the tribesman to give his name.

"Alynd."

"And what rank priest would that be?" Morhault asked. When the tribesman gave a start he added, "If you don't want people to know you're a churchman, don't go using holy magic in such dramatic fashion."

Alynd grinned. He looked to be around thirty, five years shy of Morhault's own age, and had a strong, handsome face to go with a rangy, slender by wiry form. His hair was light brown, his eyes the same color.

"Just an ordinary priest, if you must know. Though to be fair, without my priestly robes and holy symbol most people would just assume I was a magician." His eyes narrowed. "I must say, you're curiously knowledgeable about such things, and your arrival was most timely."

"Well, it might be that the attack on you was staged to let us work our way into your confidence, or it might be that _you_ staged it so that you could get close to _us_. Instead, how about we give the paranoia a rest and take each other at face value?" Morhault extended his hand to the priest, and after a moment's reflection Alynd smiled and took it.

"Those after me," he said, "would simply kill me. There would be no point in using subterfuge where force would suffice."

"Too, it's unlikely that one of the Burning Hand out for vengeance would be calling upon Althena's power."

"The Burning Hand? It seems we have an enemy in common. Perhaps the will of the Goddess has guided this meeting."

Morhault grinned sardonically.

"I'm sure _someone_ has been responsible for my luck lately. But given the current situation, maybe we should get together and compare notes."

Alynd frowned.

"I'm afraid that I have pressing business of my own."

"Yes, but we might be of help," Elia offered. "You've already been attacked once, and if they try again, at least there's strength in numbers."

"And you must admit," Deane contributed, "that no one would think of looking for a fugitive in a merchant House's mansion. Everyone knows that men on the run lurk in low dives and back alleys, not in the heart of Society."

Morhault laughed.

"Did I say something funny?"

"In a way. You see, you're absolutely right."

"Oh, indeed? How marvelous!"

Turning to Alynd, Morhault expanded on Deane's argument. "You're obviously on the run, or you wouldn't be hiding your vocation. Presumably, it's the Burning Hand that's hunting you, and we've already tangled with them, so you wouldn't have to worry about dragging innocents into a fight with the Vile Tribe. Plus, Elia's right. There _is_ strength in numbers."

Alynd thought it over. It obviously went against his grain, both as a priest and as a man with all the fierce independence the Prairie Tribe was known for. He was the type to give help, not ask it of others. He was also, however, obviously intelligent enough to recognize his best interests.

"A noble's mansion? Something tells me we'll be exchanging some intriguing stories tonight over dinner."


	26. The Man of the Prairie

Unlike in the Chief Magistrate's mansion in Nanza, Jyrian had no difficulty in being admitted to the presence of the Carras household in Meribia. Part of that was, of course, that Deane didn't generally do anything so important that he wasn't to be disturbed, but the quality of servant was also considerably better--probably since the concept of upper-crust society was rooted in Meribia so there had been more time for training and practice. The ornate decor didn't fit well with the impression she'd gotten of Halan Carras, so she wondered if it had been his late wife or his ancestors that had furnished the house.

The majordomo himself escorted Jyrian to the parlor where, he said, Deane and his guests were waiting. Usually that would be a footman's job, so Jyrian wondered if the head servant had recognized her name and wanted to gawk--or, more likely, _didn't_ want the _footman_ gawking. Whatever his reasons, he escorted Jyrian with the utmost courtesy, announced her presence, and slipped away silently before she could thank him.

"Jyrian!" Elia exclaimed, her face lighting up as soon as the adventuress entered the parlor.

Tabren was grinning, too. "Morhault said you probably wouldn't be coming back."

"This is definitely one of the few times I've been glad to be proven wrong," the renegade said. "It's good to see you, Jyrian."

"Well," she admitted, "I wasn't actually planning on coming in person, but I thought I should at least have the guts to say goodbye to your faces. I brought your payment from the Magic Guild," she added, holding up a fair-sized sack which clinked appealingly.

"Can you stay a bit?" Morhault asked. "We've got a few questions about magical theory that you might be able to help answer, or at least aim at someone who can. Plus, there's another little problem we've stumbled into."

Regretfully, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Morhault, but I can't. I've been given a new mission by the Guild which I need to return to."

Her eyes were drawn to the fifth person in the room, a bearded man whose leathers were decorated with the fringes and beadwork unique to the Prairie Tribe, and who had a strange, tight expression on his face. Jyrian had more or less ignored him until then, being more concerned with her reunion with the others and the curious way her heart seemed to be lodged in her throat. Once she saw the tribesman, though, his features began to fill her attention, clicking into place as she compared them to the description that she'd been given.

"You couldn't possibly be Alynd, could you?" she groaned.

-X X X-

Explanations were clearly in order, Morhault thought; conveniently, they themselves had only just arrived and hadn't begun yet, so Jyrian was just in time to participate.

"My name is indeed Alynd," the priest told her.

"Jyrian, of the Magic Guild of Vane. Jyrian Mageborn, if you're fond of badly-done minstrels' epics."

That was odd, Morhault thought. Usually, Jyrian ducked her theatrical epithet, not tossed it into self-introductions.

"A pleasure. We hadn't yet reached the stage of formal introductions, which brings us to another point." He turned to the fallen knight. "Just now, both the boy and Master Jyrian called you Morhault."

_I'd figured this was coming sooner or later._

"Perhaps I am doing you an injustice, but I have to ask. Are you the same Morhault, the former Lion Knight, who is commonly referred to as 'The Fallen'?" His voice was clipped, his phrasing formalistic, as if he was keeping his temper in check by focusing on his speech.

"I am."

He gave a sharp, wordless cry of rage and anguish. "Goddess Althena, why do you test me so?" he exclaimed. "To bring me face-to-face with this devil in this way?"

"It must be nice to be so popular."

"Quiet, Tabren. Alynd has his reasons," Morhault shushed the boy. To Alynd, he said, "Who did you lose?"

"My uncle and two cousins died in the war you started," the priest said. "More than that, I owe you my vocation."

Morhault didn't quite follow, but he was sure he wasn't going to like the explanation.

"As a young man, I was torn between the priesthood and life as a warrior of the tribe. I felt the call to serve Althena, but the thought of going away to study and be ordained at the main Shrine here at the Katarina Zone repelled me, not because of any great fear of the outside world, but because I did not wish to leave Sophia, my fiancee. No, the priestly life does not forbid love and marriage, but the thought of being separated from her for so long was unbearable to me."

Morhault sighed with genuine regret.

"Yes, sigh, why don't you? It's clear where my story is going, is it not? The war was but a month old when a Tamur raid attacked the encampment of Sophia's clan. She was killed fighting to defend our people, and I...had nothing to hold me to the Prairie. I couldn't even be there when she died!"

"Um..." Deane put in hesitantly, "if there's going to be a duel, would you mind terribly taking it outside to the garden? Honor is honor, but m'father always kicks up a row when my friends do something to ruin the carpets."

For once, no one laughed at one of Deane's absurd comments, or even cracked a smile.

"You don't have to worry about the carpets, milord," Alynd said bitterly. "Among other vows, when a member of the Prairie Tribe joins the priesthood, they are required to give up all blood feuds. A priest has no place crying vengeance on a man for actions the law has already punished. Moreover, there would be no duel in any event, for I now owe Morhault a blood-debt for selflessly and heroically saving my life!" He laughed bitterly, and Morhault could sympathize, for it truly did seem as if Althena was playing a cruel joke on the priest by bringing him face-to-face with Morhault in this way.

The Prairie Tribe had always been his worst accusers. They were unlike the people of the west, who only knew the stories, or the people of Tamur and their allies, who'd had their own squabbles since and did not see him in quite the iconic light that some did. Traders, merchants, and politicians could be...flexible...in their word and understood how a man might change his mind in a moral crisis, even if their idea of a moral crisis was between honor and silver.

The Prairie Tribe was different. The nomadic warriors were devoutly honorable. To them, a liar was someone who couldn't be trusted, an active danger to clan and tribe. The punishment for oathbreaking on the Prairie was a rope around the neck.

Deane's concern for violence breaking out might have been misplaced this time, but it was by no means a given. Morhault actually had been forced to fight Prairie-born warriors before; there was scarcely anyone among the tribe who hadn't lost kin, which combined with Morhault's oathbreaking gave them grounds in their customs for a blood-feud.

He'd never felt worse about himself and his past than the four times he'd stood over a man and twice over a woman who'd insisted on spending their life in an attempt to take his. He was glad that at least it wouldn't come to that.

"Maybe it's best we leave it there, then. I'll go my way and you go yours, before either of us does something we'll regret later."

"Perhaps so. I have regrets enough."

"Perhaps not," Jyrian snapped.

Everyone turned to look at her.

"I told you I had a mission from the Magic Guild. I've been given the assignment of finding you, Alynd, and giving you whatever assistance you need--and if Morhault has already saved your life once, it's clear the Guild isn't sending me off chasing dreams. The Vile Tribe is apparently up to more evil than any time since the Magic Emporer, and this is not the time to start squabbling amongst ourselves. We're supposed to be the good guys here, right?"

"Nice speech," Deane said.

"If one ignores the fact that she includes one of Lunar's more notable villains among the heroes."

"That isn't fair," Elia protested.

"Tell that to the dead."

Morhault took a deep breath.

"You know what?" he said. "I was going to let it drop because I didn't want to provoke a fight now, whether at arms or just with words, but I'm not going to sit here and take this, either. I'm sorry for your losses, more sorry than you know, because I've had ten years of most of the world putting every death in that war on my head, but I didn't kill them! I didn't fight in the war, I wasn't on anybody's side, and the only thing I got out of it was the loss of my place in the Lion Knights and ten years of being the most reviled man on Lunar."

"It's no more than you deserve, oathbreaker."

"Is it? All right, yes, I did break my vows of obedience to the Lion Knights. They had a right to retribution against me, and they took it. _You_ don't. Yes, I put the happiness of two people in love over a peace treaty. Forgive me for thinking that just maybe people who really wanted peace would actually find it without having to force other people into marriage.. Yes, the consequences were horrible, but others were involved in that. There were plenty of people among the Tamur-folk and the Prairie Tribe alike who were _happy_ to go to war. Why put the full blame on _my_ shoulders just because I couldn't help but do the right thing _for the people who were actually in front of me at the time?_"

He finished sharply, almost accusingly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. _Where had that come from?_ he wondered in amazement. Morhault hadn't defended himself like that since...no, in truth he'd _never_ spoken up that boldly about it, not even when the Lion Knights had stripped him of his shield. But he knew the answer; he'd found it the night before. It came from Jyrian, from Elia, Tabren, Edric, Deane, Halan, Ailera, and everyone else who'd shown either directly or indirectly that he was more to them than once choice that had gone badly wrong.

Alynd looked at him thoughtfully. Everyone else watched both of them. Deane glanced at the carpet again.

"I expected defiance from you," the priest said at last. "I did not expect defense."

Morhault ran his hand through his hair as the tension eased a bit.

"Yes, well, it sort of surprised me, too."

"Regardless of your past deeds, I still owe you my life. I cannot hold your actions against you and yet forget that. Therefore I will accede to our original plan. However, should you betray us to the Burning Hand I will deal with you as justice demands."

"There'll probably be a line at that point, but I understand."

"So," Deane said, rubbing his hands together, "if we've worked out where and when you're allowed to kill each other, shall I ring for refreshments?"


	27. Tales over Tea

There was a certain civilizing effect, Morhault thought, to taking tea in the Carras parlor. Given the shouting and high drama of the previous few minutes, it was definitely an improvement. Elia, Alynd, and Tabren were drinking tea, Morhault sipped slowly from a cup of mulled wine, and Jyrian had accepted a glass of the excellent claret Deane favored. Their host was on his second glass; apparently he'd needed a fortifying bracer after rude violence had nearly broken out in his home.

"May I have more tea, please?" Elia asked as Jyrian concluded her story. She'd been typically direct and forthcoming with details, even up to the fact that she was supposed to play her reputation for all it was worth to win Alynd's trust. That at least explained why she'd mentioned her nickname herself.

"Allow me," Alynd said, pouring the strong brew. "As this is one of my homeland's more noted exports, it seems fitting."

"Never liked the stuff myself," Deane observed. "M'father and Leni seem to live on it, though, so there's always plenty on hand."

"Tea comes from the Prairie?" Tabren asked.

"From the Black Dragon Hills, specifically, although a new blend is also becoming popular, from the volcanic mountains near the Red Dragon Cave. The tea plant is a blessing of the Black Dragon, according to a Prairie Tribe proverb, so perhaps she merely taught her cousin? Indeed, I owe my life to tea."

"Really? How?"

"My father was a tea merchant from Tamur, while my mother is a Prairie horsemistress. He met her while on a trading expedition to Pao and nothing would do but that they marry at once." He chuckled softly. "As you might guess, they've had some glorious rows over forty years of marriage. Perhaps that is what led me to the priesthood. By the time I was Tabren's age, I'd had plenty of experience as a peacemaker, so why not continue for my larger family?"

"Larger family?" Deane wondered.

"We are all the children of Althena, regardless of nationality or tribe, and thus all part of the same extended family."

"I guess the Burning Hand would be the cousins no one likes to talk about," Tabren quipped.

"Yes, that describes it very wall."

Morhault wondered if the priest had raised the point of his mixed heritage so easily as a kind of subtle jab at him; the background would have only made the war all the worse on Alynd in a number of ways. Not wanting to be caught up in that again, he quickly steered the conversation back on point.

"So Jyrian's been sent to find and help you, while the Hand wants you dead, all because you've managed to obtain this Eairon's Falcon. We're told you our adventures with the Vile Tribe, so how did you land on their list of people they're not fond of?"

The priest sighed and took a drink of tea to wet his throat.

"It all began quite simply, really. I'd been in Lyton, doing a bit of research into the lore of the Blue Dragon on behalf of the High Priest of Pao, and was returning to my post. He's hosting a theological debate next month and wanted to be as well-prepared as possible. There's something of a rivalry, you see, between himself and the High Priestess of Kyre."

"Small world," Tabren said.

Alynd shrugged, then continued with his tale.

"In any event, on my way to Pao I came across what was for all intents and purposes a battlefield. Banditry against trading caravans is regrettably common since the war's end, but this appeared to have been a pitched battle that had taken place a day or so prior, with scores of casualties." His face grew grim at the memory. "I stopped to help tend the wounded and offer the last rites to those who needed it.

"As I was assisting, however, I began to get the sense that something was very wrong, more than just the aftermath of the battle. Certain of the bodies had a...stench to them, not physically but in the spiritual sense, a taint of corruption that clung to them."

At first Jyrian didn't seem to understand more than anyone else, but then she snapped her fingers as the explanation came to her.

"You're a Seer, aren't you, Alynd?"

"Yes, I am."

"What's a Seer?" Tabren asked, speaking on behalf of himself and the other three, who all looked equally perplexed.

"To put it simply, a Seer can 'see' magic. It's a very rare gift and only appears among the Prairie Tribe for some reason."

"The Black Dragon has favored us, as guardians of her Fortress."

"It makes as much sense as any other explanation," Jyrian admitted.

Elia looked at her in surprise.

"But I thought that all magicians could feel magic."

"The currents of natural magic around us, or the power gathering at our command, yes, but a Seer can see spells, magical items...it's your ability, Alynd; why don't you explain it? I'm getting tongue-tied."

Deane looked at his empty glass.

"I think I'd better have some tea after all. I've never been a two-bottle man, and if you're going to discuss spellcraft in technical detail two _glasses_ may have been too much claret. Or not enough, possibly; I can't be sure."

Alynd passed the teapot but otherwise ignored the interruption.

"On the Prairie we call it the 'divine sight,' because we believe it hints at how the Goddess and the Dragons see the world. When I use it, I literally do see magic. For example, Elia, if I look at one of your fire spells as you cast it, I'll not only see the flames but also the magic as it flows from you to the target. Or, if I look at an item, I'll be able to tell if it is enchanted, and if so by what general kind of magic--wind, earth, holy, and so on."

"So while a magician feels potential magic, your divine sight lets you see active magic in the world?" Elia summed up.

Alynd nodded.

"Yes, that describes it nicely."

"So this 'wrongness' you felt was because of your ability as a Seer?" Morhault asked, trying to understand.

"That's right. While I generally have to actively choose to use my sight, on occasion I can feel it subconsciously, as if I was catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. Usually it happens when the magic is very strong or else when it is aspected in opposition to my own. I used my sight to look at the bodies, and found that several had been struck down with black magic."

"Excuse me," Jyrian interrupted, "but I thought you could only see active magic. I mean, if I kill someone with an Ice Lance, the magic is cast and done in the instant of inflicting damage. There's none left behind...is there?"

"No, there wouldn't be," Alynd agreed. "Pure elemental attack spells are like that, but there are other spells with lingering effects. A particularly unpleasant one used by the Burning Hand and similar demonic forces is the Plague Wind, which corrupts the body from the inside out, the effect continuing until the entire body decays even after the target dies. Certain status-affecting magic will remain in the same way; more than one raider had been killed with poison spells."

"Not precisely evil," Jyrian commented, "but certainly disquieting to see them used on people." Poison magic, Morhault knew, was typically used on strong monsters to weaken them so fighters could bring them down, not as an "honorable" weapon of battle.

Tabren's comment was more to the point.

"Yuck."

"Go on," Morhault said. "What did you do once you learned that black magic was involved?"

Alynd shot him a look and deliberately took a sip of tea before continuing.

"When I realized that all the bodies affected by dark magic were of bandits, I became scared. There was an extremely unpleasant moment when I thought the entire caravan might have been made up of demon-worshippers. Thankfully, if belatedly, I used the brains the Goddess gave me and realized that if they'd _all_ been cultists they could have killed me easily--and would have, rather than risk discovery. So, the cultists had to be hiding within the caravan. With the advantage of the sight helping me, I examined them and their baggage and determined that certain members of the caravan were of the Burning Hand. I also located Eairon's Falcon in a hiddencompartment of a chest."

"You knew what it was?" Jyrian was surprised.

"The Church has been looking for it for over two centuries. The problem was, we could never be too public about it since we had to keep knowledge of what it _was_ out of common hands. Even among us, there weren't many who were told."

Deane groaned with frustration.

"I know I'm probably going to be laughed at for this, but I'm officially lost. Who's Eairon, what is this falcon of his, and why is it so important?"

"I'm not laughing," Morhault agreed. "I'd like to know the same things. Alynd has his reasons for being cryptic, but you're doing it too, Jyrian." Tabren and Elia nodded their assent.

_Too bad_, Morhault thought. _Half of the things we run into on this adventure keep ringing bells in Elia's memory_.

Jyrian glanced at Alynd, and the two of them shared a long look. Friends were friends, but some secrets weren't meant to be shared. Nor, for that matter, could Alynd and Morhault be in any way considered friends--allies of moment was more like it, and Morhault didn't want to push the strength of that alliance.

"Look," he said, "I understand if there are things the Church and the Magic Guild can't tell to outsiders. If that's the case we'll drop the subject and," he added with a grin, "Deane will just have to die of curiosity. If you want us to be best able to help, though, then we need to know what is happening. You both know that lack of information gets more people killed on the battlefield than anything else, especially while fighting an enemy with the power and resources of the Vile Tribe."

"Yeah, Jyrian, come clean!" Tabren urged, a trifle more blunt about things than the fallen knight.

Elia, though, shook her head in disagreement.

"No, it's all right. We shouldn't push them to tell us. I'm willing to help regardless of what can or can't be said."

"Elia..."

"I mean it! If their secrets are that important, we can't in good faith make it a condition of our help. The Burning Hand _has_ to be stopped, doesn't it? Deane," she said, turning to the young noble, "can you really swear that you'd never accidentally let something slip, just through inattention?"

"Why, I--" He stopped, letting his mouth close in the middle of his angry protest. "No, I...I suppose I couldn't, at that. I do tend to get distracted at times."

"Or Tabren, mightn't you say something in your enthusiasm, if you felt it needed to be said?"

The boy hung his head with a mumbled "yes."

"And Morhault, I _know_ how unfair it is, but Alynd doesn't know you, what kind of person you truly are. Especially as a member of the Prairie Tribe, could he really trust someone with your reputation with a secret the priesthood of Althena is trying to protect? Or know that you would keep that trust if you came across something you thought was more important?"

The fallen knight kept his face impassive as he shook his head, but Elia did not. It clearly hurt her deeply to have to say something like that to him, and tears glittered in her eyes.

"Then there's me," she finished up. "I'm the worst of all. What if I lose my memory again, and blurt out the secret at the wrong time because I don't know any better? Plus, we don't even know who I am! What if the real 'me' is a devious, unscrupulous person--or what if I have friends, loved ones, or family who have influence over me? Jyrian and Alynd can't even judge if I'm trustworthy or not! So...so you see? There's none of us who can justly say that we _have_ to be told. We don't have the right!"

Elia sat with her clenched fists in her lap, trembling slightly in the aftermath of her feelings. She'd taken a bold stand; it was far easier and far more in tune with human nature to try and make up reasons to justify _why_ a person was worthy to bear a responsibility or be given a trust than to confront one's own weaknesses and flaws head-on? She'd raised some valid points, too. The old proverb that power corrupted and absolute power corrupted absolutely was true. Who could say what Elia, Tabren, Deane, or Morhault would do with the Red Dragon Aura, Jyrian asked herself. Or Alynd, who clearly had human failings. Or Jyrian herself, for that matter? Being a heroic magician was certainly no proof against the temptations of power. The phrase _Magic Emperor Ghaleon_ was again immediately on point for that!

On the other hand, these people were her trusted friends. Elia, Morhault, and Tabren had already put their lives on the line to stop the Burning Hand in Nota. Deane had joined them in rescuing Alynd, a story she wanted to hear more of. They'd earned her trust as fellow adventurers. And Morhault's point was a good one as well.

"No," she told Elia. "You've earned the truth. Morhault's right, too; a general might hold back information from her soldiers, but you don't work _for_ us, you're friends and allies--_equals_ involved out of free will, not hirelings serving for pay."

"Well said," Deane applauded. "That was a true lady's voice if ever I heard one."

Jyrian replied wryly. "As a matter of fact, my family is as common as they come."

"Re-ally," the blond Meribian drawled, "you don't think I meant anything so trifling as _birth_, do you? I admit we of the nobility may be born with a superior sense of style and fashion, but as for the truly important things, whether one is a lady or gentleman comes from the heart."

That completely stunned everyone in the room. Not that Deane had ever lorded the position of Halan Carras over them, but no one had expected him to come out and declare egalitarian beliefs, either--or to be able to articulate them, come to that.

"Dear me; did I say something wrong?" Deane asked the silent faces arrayed before him.

"No, Deane," Alynd replied, "I think you said something right."

"Oh, well, Father always taught Leni and me that ever since we were little. He said that if we ever had to judge a person, to do it by who he or she is and not what. Though of course if it was easy to tell who a person was, inside I mean, I shouldn't think the world would be so confusing. Then again, when I told Father that, he said it wouldn't be any fun that way, either."

Morhault chuckled.

"Your father is a very wise man, Deane." He glanced down at his half-finished goblet. "By the way, there isn't anything in that tea which inspires these fits of eloquence, is there? I've been drinking wine, and I don't feel the slightest urge to make a speech."

"You may have something there, Morhault," Alynd said, setting down his own cup and saucer. "I, for one, feel a story coming on. Have any of you ever heard of the Dragon Auras?"


	28. Eairon

"Alynd, how do you know these things?" Jyrian asked. "I myself didn't know any specifics until earlier today, and we're getting into the technical details of the powers of the Four Dragons, which is most definitely _not_ common knowledge. Yet, you're an ordinary priest, not a high-ranking official of the Church."

"You're forgetting two things. First, these are matters of theology, not magical theory. While I have great respect for the Magic Guild's learning, this is naturally the priesthood's area of expertise."

"That's a point. What else?"

"I'm from the Prairie Tribe."

It was clear that no one understood how that was relevant, so he didn't wait for Deane or Tabren to come out and say so.

"Historically speaking, we've always had a very close relationship with the Black Dragon, up until the time of Ghaleon. That has given us greater insight into certain matters than the people of, say, Meribia or Nota or Saith might have. Moreover, we have always handed down our histories and traditions orally, by story and song. The point of writing down knowledge in a book is that it can be archived until needed, but an oral tradition has to be kept alive, passed down among the people."

"And known as widely as possible, or else things are lost," Elia said. "I see."

"Thanks for indulging my curiosity," Jyrian said. "Sorry for the interruption. Go on."

Alynd leaned forward in his chair.

"It is said that thousands of years ago, when Althena first brought her people to Lunar, that our world was a barren and dead place, a cold rock devoid of light or life. The Goddess changed all that, using her own power to transform Lunar to a place where the people of the Blue Star could live. This life, however, was not natural; it was a condition sustained by the energies Althena had put into action and as such it lacked the natural balance, threatening to fall apart into chaos. Therefore, she vested the control of these energies in her servants, the Four Dragons, giving them each a share of the power over the elemental energies that sustain life on Lunar.

"Although the Dragon Tribe is incredibly long-lived compared to humans, they are nonetheless mortal creatures. They can age, can die, can even be killed. Their power, however, is eternal, for it is tied to the very nature of existence on Lunar. Upon the death of a Dragon, it is passed on to its heir. This power is what we call a Dragon Aura."

Jyrian nodded; apparently Alynd's story dovetailed with what she knew.

"Unfortunately, during the last rising of the Vile Tribe three centuries ago, the Magic Emperor enslaved the Four Dragons, using their power to fuel his war of domination. Eventually they were all slain. The heir of the White Dragon still lived, however, and claimed its power to assist Dragonmaster Alex to defeat Ghaleon and save Lunar. However, the Black, Blue, and Red Dragons left no heirs, so the White Dragon took the remaining Dragon Auras into its care until they could be passed on."

Deane raised a hand in the manner of a schoolchild seeking to be called on.

"Yes?"

"Um...not to interrupt, but if the White Dragon was the only one of the Dragon Tribe left...where would the other little dragons come from?"

Tabren laughed, while Elia blushed.

"Well, it's a legitimate question!" Deane protested.

"If we ever meet a Dragon, Deane, you can ask him or her," Morhault said. "I doubt any of the rest of us are any more knowledgeable about the specifics of Dragon breeding."

"That's too bad," Deane mused. "A purple one would be attractive."

_Sometimes,_ Morhault thought, _no sarcastic comment is adequate to the occasion._

"All right, so the White Dragon had custody of the other Dragon Auras. What happened then?"

"Eairon the Mad happened," Alynd said.

"_Him_ I've heard of," said Morhault.

"To give him his proper name, Eairon Ausa, the eldest child of Guildmistress Mia Ausa of Vane and her husband, Nash, both of whom were companions of the last Dragonmaster. Apparently he was a master of wind and earth magic and a magician of extraordinary ability."

Elia shuddered.

"It's scary to think of a madman with that much power."

Jyrian smiled thinly.

"Well, it isn't certain that he was actually a lunatic per se, though he was definitely a, how shall I put it..._creative_ thinker. He intensely disliked anything that smacked of rules and organization. Most people thought it was because the Ausa line is matriarchal, so that no matter how skilled he became, how much better at magic he was than his little sister, or at politics, administration, or anything else, he would never be better than Premier of the Magic Guild."

"I've always wondered about a system of rank in which 'Premier' means 'second,'" Morhault said wryly.

"It's because Guildmistress is a hereditary position. The Premier is the first among Magic Guild membership."

"Oh."

"What did Eairon do that made people call him mad, then?" Elia wanted to know.

"He would do things for no rhyme nor reason, other than they made life more...interesting. He made magic swords for goblins, cultivated new breeds of ambush--the plant, not the tactic--enchanted a sail for a Blue Dragon Key pirate captain, opened up a silver mine in the middle of a village of starving peasants, made a corrupt priest's bribes turn into lead, invented a merchant's pack that weighed no more than a feather fully loaded but loudly recited its contents and their value when touched, and that's just a small sample. Apparently, he believed in anarchy as the purest form of government."

"He sounds like Darius Vahn, only with magic," Deane observed.

"Who?"

"The second son of House Vahn. He thinks he's funny, too. Though he did invent a reasonably effective hangover cure, so maybe he's more like Eairon than I thought."

"So what's Eairon's Falcon," asked Morhault, "and how does it relate to the Dragon Auras?"

"Your turn again," Jyrian told Alynd.

The priest nodded.

"As I said, the White Dragon had assumed custody of the Dragon Auras until they could be claimed by their rightful heirs. Apparently, however, Eairon slipped into the White Dragon Cave, evaded all the guardians and trials, and stole the Red Dragon Aura."

The fallen knight broke into hearty laughter.

"You think this is _funny_?" Alynd snapped.

"Well...yes, actually. You said that Eairon was an anarchist who hated rules and regulations, and you have to admit he practiced what he preached! You can't get much more free-willed than thumbing your nose at the Divine Order of Things. Plus you said he did it by stealth instead of brute force and violence, which would have ruined the joke in a hurry, and to top it all off, he didn't _do_ anything with the Dragon Aura, or else he'd be Magic Emperor Eairon instead of Eairon the Mad."

Elia grinned; apparently she saw the humor in it, too.

"But what about the Burning Hand?" Jyrian asked.

"Now that," Morhault replied, sobering instantly, "isn't funny at all. How do they come into it?"

"Eairon didn't want anyone getting the Dragon Aura," Alynd explained. "Apparently that was his initial problem; he felt that even the White Dragon couldn't be trusted with the kind of power all four Dragon Auras represented. Certainly he did not believe the Church or the Magic Guild were capable of bearing the burden."

"I almost agree with him," said Morhault.

"Certainly no organization, no matter how idealistic, is free of contemptible individuals," Alynd shot back pointedly.

"Ouch," Tabren commented.

"In truth, I myself am not certain that Eairon was truly insane. He apparently disliked all authority and saw even the most benign vesting of power as the beginnings of tyranny. Which, of course, it can be. Still, there is a difference between an order which exists to protect freedoms and one designed to repress them, to control people. Pure anarchy succeeds only if everyone is virtuous, or else it becomes a license to injure others."

Alynd stopped and folded his hands in his lap.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to turn this story into a morality lesson."

"Nonsense," Deane brushed off his remorse. "Everyone expects a priest to give sermons. No need to be sorry for that; it'd be like...like a fish apologizing for swimming."

"Um...thank you?"

"Any time," the young noble replied without the slightest hint of a joke in his beaming face.

"As I was saying before I succumbed to what are apparently my natural instincts, Eairon sealed up the Dragon Aura in a hidden vault created by magic. No one knows where on Lunar the vault can be found; it could be anywhere from Caldor Isle to the Prairie. Eairon's Falcon, as you've probably guessed by this point, is both a kind of guide and a key, a statuette of a falcon that will animate and fly to the vault, then can be used to open it."

Morhault decided to pull all of the various threads and tangents together.

"So, knowing all of this, when you used your ability as a Seer to examine the caravan looking for who might be responsible for the use of black magic, you discovered Eairon's Falcon."

"Yes. At that point"--he scowled, a look of disgust on his face--"I chose a dishonorable course. I stole the falcon, and fled the caravan in the night. My only excuse is the importance of retrieving the Red Dragon Aura and, more importantly, keeping it away from the Burning Hand. Nonetheless I was afraid to confront them openly."

"It doesn't sound particularly dishonorable to me," Jyrian noted. The Prairie Tribe placed great stock in personal courage and honor; they were warriors, after all. Thieves, they despised. Alynd's background, then, as well as his calling as one of Althena's followers were telling him that he should have boldly confronted the cultists, defeated them, and reclaimed Eairon's Falcon by force. "If the Burning Hand is trying to play around with the power of the Red Dragon, then they _have_ to be stopped. We can't afford to take chances."

Alynd nodded in grudging agreement.

"My mind knows that, but it can be difficult to convince the heart. In any case, I considered bringing the Falcon to Pao or Tamur, but I realized that the cultists would be aware of what I'd done soon enough and no doubt would be watching the major shrines in the area where I might try to go. I could have left the Falcon with some obscure local shrine if I just wanted it out of my hands, but it wouldn't be _safe_ there. If I were eventually caught and tortured, I might reveal where I'd left it, and it would be easy prey for the Vile Tribe minions.

"Ultimately, I decided that the only thing to do was to bring Eairon's Falcon to the main shrine and put it directly into the custody of the High Priestess. Once it was safe there the Burning Hand could do nothing to reach it regardless of what they might do to me. I raced through Tamur Pass without stopping in the city and took ship from the south coast to Meribia, hoping to blend in as much as possible with the pilgrims and other travelers on my way to Dian."

"Dian?"

"It's the town where the shrine is located, Tabren," Jyrian explained.

"What brought you to the University?" Morhault wondered. "It seems a little out of your way."

"The University professors and the Church's scholars often use pilgrims as couriers for books, letters, and the like. The pilgrims are going that way anyway, and the work helps them defray the cost of the pilgrimage. Too often," Alynd said with a regretful sigh, "people return home from a pilgrimage destitute. I've seen entire families abandon shops or farms for a spiritual but symbolic act."

"That's awful!" Elia breathed.

The priest nodded solemnly.

"Of course, overindulgence in worldly goods and worldly appetites is wrong, but self-destruction is not what the Goddess wants for us. It is a grave mistake to equate poverty with humility, or sacrifice with holiness."

It was Deane, this time, who brought the conversation away from the philosophical and back to the here and now.

"I don't understand. You got away from the caravan, so you had a head start; and you came to Meribia by ship, which is faster than the land route; and you haven't been wearing priestly robes. How did anyone find you to set that pack of ugly things on you? Did they follow some kind of trail from the Stadius Zone?"

"Like a magical version of hounds on a scent!" Tabren chimed in enthusiastically.

Alynd frowned.

"I thought so at first, but the more I think it over, I do not believe it possible." He turned to Elia. "Perhaps you know, or Jyrian?"

Jyrian shook her head. Elia's teeth worried at her lower lip as she tried to see if any echoes would strike in her missing memory, then her eyes widened in surprise.

"I do know!" she exclaimed happily. "You're right, Alynd; they can't track over water at all. The sea currents distribute the water you actually passed over throughout the ocean, so there's no trail for the grues to sense."

"That means that someone deduced your next step and had a Burning Hand magician summon the winged grues to track you down from this side," Morhault said.

"How would they get the message here ahead of him?" Tabren asked.

"Carrier birds, message spells, or maybe teleportation," Jyrian said.

"In any event, the conclusion is inescapable. The Burning Hand is most certainly aware of me and is present in or around Meribia. If they can find me once, they can do so again. I must move quickly."

Jyrian turned to him.

"Well, whatever you do, you've got me with you. If they're as desperate as we think they are, they'll be after you again and I can help watch your back."

Surprisingly, Elia volunteered almost as quickly.

"I want to help, too! We can't let these villains get the Falcon from you." Her voice turned nervous. "If you think I can be of help..."

"In good conscience, I--"

"She's right, y'know," Deane interrupted. "It's the duty of every right-thinking person to stand up to the Burning Hand."

"I thought we already went through all that," Tabren pointed out. "I mean, it's nice that you're giving us a chance to back out now that we know the stakes, but unless you figure that we'd do more harm than good it's kind of insulting."

Sometimes, Morhault thought, Tabren was a very perceptive young man.

"All right, then," Alynd said, "it's decided. We'll set out together."

"Tomorrow," Deane said. "Really, it must be tomorrow. Not when there's an excellent dinner waiting for us and a chance to repack for the journey."

"Dinner," Jyrian weighed the word on her tongue. "Deane, now and again you positively show promise."


	29. The Seer

Dinner more than lived up to every promise Deane made about it. It was as if the chef had decided to outdo himself as Deane and his friends had missed the Creation Festival banquet from the night before: soup with Prairie spices, tossed salad with Iluk vegetables, stuffed duck, fresh greens, mushrooms in wine sauce, and roast beef done to perfection. It wasn't a seven-course meal, but Morhault felt like he had been at one by the time a selection of ices were served at the end of the meal.

"Now I know," he said, "why adventurers eat dried meat and fruit and journeybread. I'm so full I couldn't lift a sword, let along swing one."

"I know exactly what you mean," Jyrian grinned, accepting a strawberry ice as the tray passed her. She deftly wielded the dainty silver spoon, slicing off a piece of the confection and transferring it to her mouth. "Mmmm, I love these."

"Are they good?" Elia wondered.

"They're the best thing in the world. I don't know what the Goddess eats, but ices are the closest I've tasted to it." She glanced down the table. "Sorry, Alynd."

"Not at all. Althena has come to Lunar in human form numerous times in history, after all. I'm sure she'd enjoy an ice."

"Well, then," Elia decided, "I'll try one!" She plucked a lemon ice from the tray, holding the crystal dish gingerly. When she took her first spoonful, a smile of astonishment spread across her face. "Oh, it's wonderful! Thank you, Deane!"

"Didn't have much t'do with it, m'self," he murmured.

"Yes, but it's your home and thanks to you I got the chance to taste this delicious treat."

Jyrian chuckled.

"She's right, Deane, so take your thanks like a man."

The group split up after dinner. Jyrian and Deane went to the kitchens to select provisions for the journey, while Tabren decided to explore the Carras townhouse further--almost a sightseeing tour in and of itself. Morhault and Elia, though, stayed behind and approached Alynd once the others had scattered. He looked at them dubiously.

"What do you want?" he snapped at the renegade.

"We'd like to ask you a favor."

The priest's eyes narrowed.

"We may be joining forces out of the common good, Morhault. That doesn't mean I have any desire to spend time with you personally or to offer you any more than basic civility. Certainly that doesn't extend to _personal_ favors."

"It's not for me; it's for Elia."

"Why don't we forget about it, Morhault? I don't _want_ the help of someone who thinks like that," Elia said.

Morhault sighed.

"Maybe we could find somewhere a bit more private?" he suggested, noting the servants busily removing the supper dishes and otherwise finishing the after-dinner cleaning.

"I agree," Alynd concurred.

"I don't see the point--" Elia began, but broke off when Morhault laid his hand on her arm and gave her a pleading look. "Oh, all right."

Just down the hall they found a small study paneled in dark wood with bookcases, desk, and sideboard of the same color, well-stuffed chairs with burgundy leather upholstery and a Prairie-woven carpet on the floor. It had the kind of masculine feel that suggested it to be the province of Deane's father. In a large glass tank set into one of the bookcases, several brightly-colored fish swam among a setting of attractive rocks and water plants. Morhault closed the door behind them.

"Morhault, I don't understand why you're insisting," Elia said at once. "I don't want to be indebted to someone who'd treat you like that."

"There's two reasons," he said, a bit surprised by Elia's outburst. He supposed he shouldn't be; the blue-haired magician was definitely his fiercest defender--after all, _he'd_ been protecting _her_ for the literal entirety of her known life. "On one hand, Alynd's skills are unique and while you might be willing to pass up this chance, I don't want to leave you in the lurch because you were sticking up for me."

"And the other?"

He grinned sheepishly.

"I'd probably have reacted pretty much the same way Alynd did if _he'd_ come to _me_, so I can't really be pointing fingers."

Elia looked at him in surprise, then at the priest, and back again at Morhault.

"You mean it, don't you?"

"Of course, on both counts."

"So," Alynd said, "have you decided on whether or not you're going to ask this favor of me?"

"I think so, but there may be further updates."

"_Men!_" Elia sighed.

For a brief second, Morhault and Alynd found themselves in complete sympathy for one another.

"So what was it you wanted to ask?" Alynd prompted Elia.

"I've told you about my memory loss," the girl explained, "and how we've consulted several experts, including Deane's sister Lenia, about how I might be cured. One thing they've all mentioned is that since I was drawn through that conjuror's summoning, magic might be the cause. So, when you described your ability as a Seer..."

"...we thought that you might be able to help," Morhault finished.

"I see," said Alynd, stroking his beard. "You understand, though, that the sight does not allow me to see the past effects of magic or the potential for it, but only magic as it presently, actively exists in this world."

Morhault nodded.

"I understand. If Elia's memory was erased or repressed by a spell, then you wouldn't be able to tell, but if she is under an enchantment that is blocking or hiding those memories, you might. Since I don't know how that kind of magic would work, we'll have to take what we can get."

"Very well. At the least, it can't hurt to try."

There was nothing to it, at least from Morhault's point of view. Alynd didn't chant any spells, make any gestures, or even utter a prayer. The only indication he gave that anything was happening at all was when his eyes widened and a look of surprise spread across his face.

"By the Goddess!"

"Why do I get the feeling that this is not good news?" murmured Morhault.

"What is it?" Elia exclaimed.

"I've never seen anything like it," the priest said, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like it at all."

"Now I _know_ it isn't good news."

Alynd shook his head one last time, as if to clear away the effects of the shock.

"So there's definitely magic affecting her, then?" Morhault asked.

"Yes, most certainly, but what is strange is the _type_ of magic. My sight can distinguish the elemental affinity a spell or magic item belongs to. If, for example, a magician used the Power Drive spell to enhance your strength, I could tell that fire magic was at play."

Morhault understood; it was how Alynd had identified the Burning Hand members along the caravan, by spotting the magical items they carried which were imbued with dark magic.

"The spell on you, Elia, has no elemental affinity at all!"

"What?" the girl exclaimed.

"Whatever has been done to you, it doesn't draw upon one of the five elements of common magic, it does not call upon Althena's power, it does not call upon any demonic spirit or demigod, nor does it fall within any of the esoteric schools of spell use. It appears to be magicial energy in its pure, unshaped state!"

Elia blinked in surprise.

"How is that even possible? Doesn't all magic have an element?"

"All _spells_ have an element. When we cast a spell, we shape magic to our needs, or in the case of holy or black magic we call upon the power of a divine or demonic entity that has already shaped that magic. What's happened here...I don't recognize it as anything."

"What could cause that?" Morhault wondered.

"I have no idea. I wouldn't have believed it possible, if I hadn't just seen it."

"Do you think that's what causing her memory loss?"

Alynd shrugged.

"I haven't any idea. I can't tell what the spell's purpose is, only that it exists. Moreover, since I can't read its element I can't even make an educated guess." He stroked his beard, a gesture which apparently meant that he was thinking something over. "I'd like to discuss this with Jyrian, if I may. The Magic Guild has delved more extensively into the technical functioning of magic than has Althena's priesthood. She may have some insight."

In response to his questioning glance, Elia nodded her head firmly, without any hesitation.

"Of course you may. I don't have any secrets from Jyrian." Her face fell, and she amended her statement, "None except the ones that are also secret from me."


	30. The Problem With Minstrels

They left Meribia the next morning, taking the trade road that curved north and west around the bay before continuing east and south. It would have made more sense purely from a map-reading standpoint if Meribia had been on the other side of the peninsula, facing the ocean whose trade it served, but one built a seaport where the harbor was best.

Thanks to the Carras stables and the largesse of the Magic Guild, the companions were mounted as they set out for Dian. For some of them, this proved to be a new and exciting experience. The Prairie Tribe were the experts in horse-breeding on Lunar, so it was no surprise that Alynd was more at home in the saddle than he'd been in Deane's drawing room. Morhault, too, had long years of experience at riding; knights were cavalry soldiers at heart, after all. Deane, surprisingly, proved to be nearly as skilled on horseback. Morhault supposed it wasn't unbelievable, since his family did after all _own_ horses and riding was a skill taught to most of the city's merchant-lords, but there was still something incongruous about seeing the dandy handle a physical task with such ease.

Tabren, on the other hand, had never been on a horse in his life and from the way Elia struggled it was clear she hadn't either. Both required the patient assistance of the group's more experienced riders to get the hang of things, but by the end of the first day were at least able to manage to keep on at a steady pace.

The surprise was Jyrian. Apparently the legendary hero of the Magic Guild had not taken equestrian classes in her Champion of Justice training, as Tabren put it. Unlike the other novice riders, she found her inability to deal with the horse both embarrassing and frustrating, and as a result was the worst of the riders, emotion getting in the way of learning. Even so, she did manage to improve to the point that any jokes at her expense were friendly teasing rather than mockery, so that by the third day they were genuinely off on a journey.

They passed by the towering structure called Taben's Peak along the way, a twisted mountain of metal over and through which the trees of a growing forest were rising. Jyrian shared with them the legend that, incredibly, the Peak had once been a massive, _mobile_ castle powered by magic and mechanical science in an unholy concoction.

"It's said in Vane that this castle was what knocked our city from the skies, even as we damaged it too much for it to continue its march on the Goddess Tower."

"This thing _moved_?" Tabren boggled. "How?"

"It appears to be a tread-based mechanism," Deane observed. "Sensible; I doubt any conventional wheel-and-axle design could support the weight. It also more evenly distributes that weight over the ground, though I still wouldn't care to drive it anywhere near mud."

"To answer the question I think you were actually asking, Tabren, the enslaved Dragons were the source of its power," Jyrian cut off Deane's stream of technological admiration.

"Now I know why you're all so scared the Burning Hand will get hold of the Red Dragon Aura," Tabren whistled.

Morhault was troubled, but it wasn't by that. After thwarting Geldoth's plot in Nota and Nanza, he'd considered the possibility that the Vile Tribe might seek revenge. By all accounts the Burning Hand did not like to be crossed, not an unusual quality in power-hungry fanatics, and might well try to eliminate those who'd ruined one of their schemes. His goal had therefore been to avoid anything having to do with them as best he could so that he could pursue Elia's quest.

Instead, a twist of fortune had drawn them right back into the fight against the Burning Hand. There was no question of backing out; he wasn't willing to stand by and let them act freely in front of him, and Elia appeared to share his sentiments. Even his more pragmatic side favored it; the bag of silver now sitting comfortably in his saddlebags courtesy of the Magic Guild was a clear reminder of the more concrete benefits of doing the right thing. Nor did the danger particularly bother him, for both as a knight and a mercenary he'd essentially lived his adult life on one battlefield or another. He didn't like putting Elia and Tabren into danger but they could make their own choices and were both showing steady improvement in their ability to defend themselves.

What was really at the root of his unease was the fortuitous way it had all happened. People threw around words like "fate" and "destiny," but in a practical, day-to-day sense the future was shaped not by abstract metaphysical forces but by the events of the past and the choices of the present. Still, it certainly _felt_ like he'd stumbled squarely into the clutches of destiny.

If the others were at all bothered by this, they didn't show it. Deane and Tabren no doubt just thought it was all an exciting adventure. Elia had her own problems to contend with, much closer to her heart than questions about fate. Alynd hadn't even been involved in stopping Geldoth, so none of Morhault's thoughts even applied to him. As for Jyrian, this was probably just business as usual. If her reputation was at all accurate, she careened from one adventure to another, battling monsters, rogues, evil mages, and other assorted villainy.

Then again, maybe they had the right of it. If five out of six people didn't see anything unusual, perhaps he was the one who wasn't seeing things clearly due to the clouds of his own viewpoint. Either way, Morhault supposed that it ultimately made no difference. He'd chosen a course of action, and now he was bound to follow it through. The thought almost made him chuckle. Now, he even _sounded_ like the hero in a ballad.

The night they passed Taben's Peak they stopped in a village called Erno, a bustling hamlet whose location on a major trade road had brought it prosperity its size wouldn't ordinarily suggest. There were two inns in town, the Travelers' Rest and the Bawdy Pirate. Deane immediately suggested the latter and was just as immediately outvoted.

"You have no sense of adventure," he complained as they entered the Travelers' Rest.

"_That_ kind of adventure I can do without," Jyrian informed him.

Morhault approached the innkeeper and arranged for three rooms. He remembered the night in Melgar all too well and didn't want anyone left alone and vulnerable.

Dinner proved to be a hearty beef stew with onions, potatoes, carrots, and garlic, served with fresh-baked loaves. A respectably competent troubadour played from a stool by the hearthside while the travelers hungrily attacked their food.

"You know," Jyrian commented, "there's nothing like the fresh air of the open road to give me an appetite."

Tabren broke open a still-warm loaf of bread.

"With food this good, any air will do!"

The meal progressed pleasantly until they were nearly done, when the minstrel had the bad judgment to start in on "The Lay of Morhault the Fallen." It was actually one of the more benign versions of the story, portraying the fallen knight as melodramatic and reckless, given to the grand gesture without considering the consequences, then all but rending his clothes in angst over what happened, but it killed Morhault's appetite all the same.

"I think I'd rather be evil than a whiner," Morhault grumbled.

Since there were only two other occupied tables in the tavern to offend, Jyrian tossed a few coins into the minstrel's hat and said, "Hey, there! I've been on the road all day and don't need anything else depressing. How about something stirring and happy?"

The troubadour shrugged, stopping at once--a paying customer is never wrong in the entertainment business--and set to singing something different. The heroic and uplifting song he chose turned out to be "Jyrian Mageborn and the Ice-Wraith." Worse yet, a couple of the other patrons who'd had a bit too much of the house ale set to singing along. Deane promptly got up to defend the honor of the table, and let fly with a voice shockingly reminiscent of a banshee fowl's mating call.

Jyrian elbowed him in the stomach and jerked him back into his chair by the belt, but the damage was done. Tabren started in next, in a much better voice, followed by a whole party of merchants at the next table. Then the chorus came around again and _Elia_ joined in with a voice like a silver chime.

_"Yet 'ware to the hand,_

_Be it monster or man's,_

_That is raised against_

_Jyrian Mage-born!"_

"Come on, Morhault!" Tabren encouraged, hauling the fallen knight out of his seat by one arm while Elia pulled him up by the other. Surrounded by such relentless celebration, he gave in and lent his baritone to the task. Soon everyone in the room was singing, with the sole exception of the magician herself. Encouraged by the response, the troubadour opted for the long version, which had an extra six verses. He bowed to rousing applause at the end as more coins rained into his hat.

"Well, since that was such a success," he announced, "shall we try for 'Jyrian Mageborn and the Goblin King'?"

Amid the cheers, Jyrian groaned and dropped her head onto the table.

"You're lucky," she told Morhault the next day.

"Oh?"

"If _you_ want to shut a bard up, all you have to do is threaten him. People _believe_ it when a notorious villain suggests it would be better for their health not to make fun of him."

"I knew there had to be an advantage to it somewhere."

"You do have a nice voice, though."

"Thank you. I was wondering, by the way..." He trailed off, not quite sure how annoying she'd find the question.

"Yes?"

"Well, since I've had a certain amount of bad experience in the area, I know how minstrels have a bad habit of making things up when they don't know the truth--or when the facts don't make for a good song."

"I think I know where this is going..." Jyrian sighed.

Morhault grinned at her.

"So, how much of 'Ice-Wraith' really happened that way?"

"Well..." she started, then sighed again and admitted, "pretty much all of it."

"Even the part where you say, 'You shall feel the sting of Justice's blade'?"

"I was barely older than Tabren! You were young once, too."

"Oh, worse. I was a knight's squire at that age. I was so full of heroic ideals they probably left stains on my shirt. How about 'Goblin King'?"

Jyrian sighed heavily.

"Most of that one, too, except the crown was brass instead of gold."

"And 'Blue Dragon Pirates'?"

She made a face.

"Almost none. They would have pitched me into the sea if the Meribian navy hadn't shown up."

"'Wolf Bandits'?"

"Some. There were wolf-headed beastman bandits, and I did beat them, but it was over a series of ambushes over two weeks, not one big fight. Credit me with _some_ sense!"

"All right, so how about 'Mad Wizard'?" Morhault finished his list.

"When'd you do _that_ one?"

"After you went to bed. I'm surprised you didn't hear it through the floor."

"No wonder I had nightmares," Jyrian groused.

They could hear the warble of songbirds calling to their mates from the nearby thickets as they rode along.

"I take it that one isn't your favorite."

Jyrian made a face.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognize it; it's not even really about me. Some bard just took one of the Leon the Mighty Gale stories out of the _Dragonmaster Chronicles_, changed the names, and set it to music. No doubt it was some night when the host yelled 'Give me another Jyrian Mageborn song!' and his minstrel didn't know any more so had to do some creative improvising."

"Well, I understand where you're coming from." Surprisingly enough, Morhault found he actually did. "It bothered me a bit at first, to hear you complain about what the minstrels have done to your life when I compared it to mine."

"I must sound to a spoiled brat to you."

"No, that's just it. I _do_ understand. They've taken your life and rendered it down into a toy, nothing more than a night's amusement for them. Then they go one step beyond and _create_ a life for you, and all of a sudden you're not you any more to thousands of people, but the figment of someone's imagination that does things for reasons you'd never think of and has experiences you'd never imagined. Hero or villain, it's all the same."

"You're absolutely right! That's what drives me crazy, being judged, good or bad, based on someone else's idea of who I am. If the songs were all true it wouldn't be so bad, but..." She shook her head in frustration. "Do you know, I've actually heard apprentices at the Guild debating what I'd done in some situation or another, when not only hadn't I done that, but the whole circumstance was made up! I suppose that's the main difference in our 'bardic problems'--everyone on Lunar knows you didn't get the girl to the wedding and so broke up the peace treaty; the only question is _why_. The answer, no doubt, is whatever best suits the storyteller's prejudices--or the audience's."

Jyrian let out a deep breath.

"You know, Morhault, I don't think I've ever talked about it before. Complained, yes, all the time, but never really...talked. I suppose it's hard for the average person to see fame and respect as a burden, while you...I'd have thought you'd be willing to kill for my reputation, and instead you...understand."

For some reason, Morhault couldn't find any words for a reply.

He did notice, though, that Elia let her horse lag even further behind the two leaders.


	31. Ambush

The trade road forked after traversing a rough loop around the bay. The main road continued south towards Vane and Nanza, while the spur led east towards Dian and the High Shrine of Althena. The road was relatively broad and well-traveled, reminding Morhault that Dian wasn't just the Shrine but a good-sized town around the size of Kyre. Religion may have been its major industry instead of farming, mining, trade, or crafting, but it gave rise to all the normal urban infrastructure that any other settlement of people developed.

The mountains that formed the eastern border of the Katarina Zone were no narrow ridgeline but a massive block of rearing stone that covered massive tracts of land. Originally, they had been part of the wall separating the Frontier from the rest of Lunar and were a major part of Nota's success as a trade city; there just weren't many passable routes between the Madoria Plains and the Katarina Zone and Nota dominated the easiest one. As they drew nearer the grassy meadows were replaced by rolling hills, then by ragged cliffs and outcroppings, while conifers steadily took over from deciduous trees. Side trails to hamlets or other minor settlements became few and far between; Dian itself was clearly the only reason why travelers customarily came this way.

The road was still well-maintained and they passed roadside inns on occasion, but it was clear that civilization was still making inroads into this region, with as much wilderness as settled land remaining.

Banditry was not uncommon on the tradeway; regular patrols by Althena's Guard and the Meribian army did not wholly dissuade those of low character from seeing traveling pilgrims as easy pickings. Morhault supposed the situation wasn't entirely different from that which had given rise to the Barrier Guard in Nanza, only the Church didn't have the money to spare in establishing a force of escorts.

Though armed parties were rarely attacked, the group still kept a close eye out. They were expecting trouble, and it came as they were riding past a rocky crag with a knot of trees at its base. It was a sinister-looking spot, a bare finger of stone thrust upwards into the sky which cast its shadow across the road. The copse made an excellent spot from which to launch an ambush, and both Morhault and Jyrian kept a wary eye on it. The attack did not come from that direction, though.

It might have been the sound of wingbeats, the rush of air, or just an experienced warrior's intuition, but Morhault turned in the nick of time to duck the slashing rear talons of a winged grue, taking only a glancing blow off his mail-coated shoulder. He shouted a warning and grabbed for his sword.

There were more of the things this time, at least ten, though it was difficult to tell as they dove and swarmed. Worse, they were in the air, where they moved with a remarkable agility that their bulk made seemingly impossible.

"Try to get to the copse!" Morhault cried, cutting at a diving monster with his sword. The tree cover would force the grues to land, stealing much of the creatures' battle prowess.

Two grues dove at Alynd, but the priest raised his staff and called forth the glowing barrier he'd used in Meribia. The grues were knocked sprawling, and Tabren got a slash in at one as he rode by. To his other side, Morhault tried to guard the boy's flank, as Tabren was the least prepared of the six to fight this kind of battle.

Deane, meanwhile, had snatched his crossbow off his back, loaded the first bolt, and snapped off a shot that punched through a grue's wing. In seconds he had another bolt in place and fired again, this time taking a diving beast in the chest.

"I _knew_ it!" he crowed, reloading. "I _knew_ it would work in actual battle!"

"That's nice," Jyrian said. "Now, _move_." Her inexperience with horses left her unable to easily follow her own advice, and a grue's sharp talons tore several slashes along her back, cutting through leather and cloth to gouge shallow wounds. She spun, lifted her hand, and incanted a quick phrase, shaping her power into a spear of ice that shattered against the back of her attacker, releasing a wave of numbing cold into its body. Elia joined her fellow magician on the attack, sniping at the creatures with the firebursts she'd used before.

They were actually doing well, Morhault thought. Two of the monsters were seriously, maybe fatally wounded, while three more had been forced down to earth, and their quarry had almost made it to the tree cover. Jyrian, Elia, and Deane covered their retreat with spells and bolts, while the others fought off any grues that came too close. It looked as if the tide was turning in their favor.

Which, of course, was when the second wave of the ambush struck.

They came rushing out of the copse, where they'd been waiting for their victims to make the obvious tactical response to the aerial attack. There were perhaps a dozen of them, men and women with the hard-eyed look of professional fighters. They carried swords and axes and wore leather armor studded with metal, giving them the look of brigands or sellswords from Reza or points south.

Behind the fighters was a tall, lean man in dark clothing and a black cloak, brazenly wearing the Burning Hand's symbol on a gold-and-copper medallion. His right hand was at his side, and in it he seemed to clench a sphere of absolute darkness, black rays leaking out between his fingers. Morhault knew that real darkness was only the absence of light, but this was different, an active presence with its own positive existence. The Vile cultist snapped that hand up, and the sphere extended into a ray of pure black that lashed out, crashing into Alynd. The priest parried with his staff--and, no doubt, with Althena's magic--but he was still jolted back in his saddle, left stunned.

Now the companions were in real trouble, the fallen knight realized even as he battled the new attackers. The bandits weren't much of a problem on their own, he reflected even as he cut one armswoman down, but they held their victims in place, exposed so the grues could continue to strike from above, and away from the dark priest, who was already chanting another spell.

Using his heavy armor and the height afforded by his horse, Morhault hammered his way through the enemy soldiers. Though his bastard sword was too heavy to be ideal in mounted combat, he used it to his advantage, raining great two-handed blows down to his left and right alike, slaying or crippling foes with every stroke. Tabren's blade found another, while Jyrian's rapier lashed out like a whip, driving bandits away from herself and Deane. The Meribian used the opportunity to take out a grounded grue with his crossbow.

The dark priest finished his chanting and thrust both arms out before him, palms outstretched as if he was pushing something. Perhaps he was; the air seemed to ripple like the sea did when a wave moved through it. The effect sped directly towards Alynd, who was still dazed from the darkling blot. Morhault's breath caught in horror as he expected the priest to fall, but nothing seemed to happen. From the caster's angry scowl, the complete failure of his spell to accomplish anything had confused him as well.

One of the bandits, thinking Morhault distracted by the magician, tried the infantryman's oldest trick against a mounted foe: she went after the horse. Morhault didn't have time to bring his heavy sword around to parry; instead he released his left hand and dropped that arm to shield his mount's throat. The armswoman's blade echoed off his gauntlet, but the enchanted armguard transmitted little of the shock of the strike to Morhault's arm. With a few quick strokes of his own blade he left her dead on the ground.

A grue nearly tore Jyrian's head off with a diving attack, disrupting her concentration as she started to cast a spell.

"Keep them off me!" she cried. "I'll deal with the magician!"

The dark priest cackled.

"I hardly think so," he sneered, and with a quickly murmured phrase sent another bolt of darkness at her, but this one shattered against a barrier of ice crystals.

Elia closed her eyes and clenched her hands together prayerfully, lips moving with the lyrical syllables of an incantation. The soldiers immediately saw her as an easy target, and as Morhault knew well, any fighter who's faced magicians knows to take any easy opportunity to strike them down. He also knew that the longer it took to cast a spell, the more power and concentration was being poured into it. Elia was clearly trying for something out of the ordinary, above her usual level of power, which made it all the more urgent from the enemy's viewpoint to kill her before she could get the spell off. No less than three of the surviving soldiers were closing on Elia with exactly that in mind.

Deane and Tabren had already moved to protect Jyrian, so the fallen knight turned his horse and charged at once towards Elia. His sword flashed out just in time to parry an axe-strike that would have savaged the blue-haired girl. Overextended, he was unable to prevent a blade from slashing along the edge of his thigh. Morhault struck back, taking that armsman down, but he'd only been a momentary annoyance, not one of those threatening Elia.

He drove his horse between them and their quarry, striving to keep the route blocked. It was all he could to hold them back, to parry their attacks; despite his superior skill he couldn't make an effective counterattack for fear of leaving an opening exposing the helpless Elia. Frankly, he wasn't sure he could handle it anyway. This was open ground, where pure numbers were the biggest advantage.

Then Alynd came to his rescue. The nomad had regained his senses and cracked his hardwood staff against the base of one foe's skull, using the tip almost like a lance to snap his spine. Morhault lashed out at once, cutting down a second enemy, and finished the last of the three a moment later. His eyes met Alynd's, and the priest nodded once, his face showing solemn approval.

That was when Elia's eyes opened. She thrust her hand towards the sky, giving a wordless shout, and a spark of light flashed up from it into the midst of the circling, diving grues. The spark detonated there, sending tongues of fire flashing outwards and curling back in on themselves like ribbons on a birthday present or the petals of some exotic flower. The five grues still airborne were all engulfed by the spell; their burning corpses plummeted towards the ground like comets, dissolving just before impact into formless ichor like the others had in Meribia.

The impact of the spell on their foes was immediate. The enemy had taken serious losses in men and creatures while being unable to take down even a single one of the travelers. The remaining fighters began to give ground, their fighting withdrawal giving way to an all-out rout. The last of the grounded monsters fell with two of Deane's bolts buried to the fletchings in its broad chest.

As for the dark priest, he appeared to be getting the worst of the magical duel with Jyrian. Sweat stained his brow, and his chest heaved with gasping breaths, evidence of the effort it had cost him to keep pace with the heroine from Vane. His dark clothing had been slashed in several places by shards of ice that had inflicted superficial wounds, while Jyrian appeared unhurt. He looked around at his fleeing soldiers and snarled viciously.

"It seems we'll have to continue this another time," he growled, and reached into his belt pouch. He drew out an amber orb like enough to the one Geldoth had used in Nota to be the same one, and lifted it high. Jyrian hurled a frozen bolt at him, but the ice arrow sped through an empty space where the priest had been.

"Again?" Jyrian exclaimed, then proceeded to make several other comments not usually associated with heroic legends. Tabren, who'd spent his formative years in an inn patronized largely by sailors, nonetheless looked at her with new respect.

The fleeing bandits were soon well out of sight, leaving the companions in sole possession of the field.

"Come on," Jyrian said, "I want to put some distance between us and this spot before we patch ourselves up, in case the priest comes back with reinforcements." She shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand how they're _doing_ that! The stones are obviously the key, but _how_?"

"The magic of the orb," Alynd said, almost hesitantly, "was pure and unformed, not of any element."

Morhault and Jyrian glanced at Elia. Was it somehow a coincidence, or was there a connection between the orbs and the magic afflicting her?

"That's how the Vile Tribe can use magic, or the magic race of Vane. We humans and beastmen are restricted to a certain element, perhaps two, plus maybe a few odds-and-ends dangling off the edge of our mastery. The magic race can theoretically work with any element; while they can use spells like we do, they can also directly shape their own magic into effects of any element." She looked around the circle of faces, worried. "If the Burning Hand has created a way to let humans use magic in this way, it could make them the most powerful magicians in all of Lunar."

"Then, if they have the..." Elia said weakly, "ability...to..." Her voice trailed off, and she slipped from her saddle in a dead faint. Morhault was barely able to catch her before she hit the ground.

--

_NOTE: Those familiar with both TSS and SSSC will notice that in this SSSC-based world, when Althena's Fortress took off and wrecked the original shrine, I've had the Church found their new shrine...pretty much exactly where it was located in TSS._


	32. Resolution

Jyrian and Alynd agreed that Elia's condition appeared to be no more than exhaustion from spellcasting, which was a relief. Morhault supposed he wasn't too surprised, given the strength of the fireblossom compared to the minor spells she'd used before. Her condition left no question about moving on; they set up camp some distance from the battle site but no further than they had to. Since they were staying in the area, Jyrian suggested that it might be appropriate to do something about the bodies.

"Tabren and I can collect them, while you and Deane fetch wood for a pyre," Morhault suggested. "Alynd, would you stay with Elia? Someone ought to be with her."

Alynd rubbed the side of his head.

"It had best be me, I agree, since I have healing magic and since I am still a bit weak from the effects of that shadowbolt. It was a strong spell, and I did not have a chance to use a proper spell defense."

"That staff of yours isn't just a staff, is it?" Jyrian asked slyly.

He held it out before him, resting across the palms of his hands. Fully six feet long, it was made of dark wood--probably Black Dragon oak, which grew only in the foothills east of the Prairie. The base was capped with steel, which kept the end from wearing and splintering while both walking and striking blows. The other end was topped by some kind of elaborate fetish, brightly colored feathers attached with leather thongs to a circle of woven wooden strips. Patterns and carvings ran down the full length.

"No. It's a barrier focus, which helps me maintain defensive spells. Even without a proper spell it was able to block some of the shadowbolt's effects."

Deane groaned and said, "There's nothing more confusing than two magicians talking shop. I think I'll start in on the wood." He got up and headed for the copse.

"Hey, Deane," Morhault stopped him.

"Yes?"

"That was some nice work with that crossbow of yours. I think you may be on to something there."

"Thank you!" Deane brightened. "I must say, I was worried about how the mechanism would hold up with repeated use and with the dirt and rain of travel, but it seems to have performed exactly as I'd hoped. Though I do wonder if there isn't a way to improve the tensile strength of the arms without impairing the speed of..." He wandered off into the trees, lost in thought.

Morhault and Tabren trudged back to the battle site. There were eleven bodies there, none alive; even the one Alynd had struck with his staff had been killed by the blow. It would have been nice to have a prisoner to question, but Morhault hadn't really expected it; the blow had looked lethal to him when it was struck.

"No one left but the dead," he murmured. "Let's see what we can do to clean this up." The fallen knight took one soldier by the ankles and began to drag the corpse into position, sneaking a glance at Tabren while he did so. The boy was trembling as he watched Morhault handle the body. Tabren had been uncharacteristically sullen and quiet since the battle's end, and Morhault thought he knew the reason. It was why he'd suggested the division of labor that he had.

Tabren reached out for a fallen woman's legs to drag her as Morhault had, but a convulsive shudder ran through him, and he spun away, dropped to his knees, and retched. Morhault walked over to the boy and rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I...recognized her face," Tabren whispered. "I killed her, Morhault. She was charging Alynd, and I just reached out and stabbed. My sword slid right into her. The blood sprayed all over my arm and she just...fell." He looked up and Morhault with tear-stained eyes. "It was so _easy_. One second she was alive, and the next...Then I killed two more of them in the fight. It was less than ten minutes. I'd never killed anyone before, and ten minutes later I'd killed three people!"

He shuddered again, muscles spasming as a racking sob of shame and pain ran through him.

"I'm not a coward, am I? I fought the cultists in Nota. I even helped Deane kill one of those monsters in Meribia. I've seen dead people before..." His words were choked off by another sob.

"No," Morhault said softly, shaking his head. "No, you're not a coward." He'd seen this before, in young mercenaries after their first battle, and before that in squires who'd entered real combat for the first time. He'd gone through it himself, and had been very glad that Damosel Anaya had been there for him. "It's a natural reaction."

"But..."

Morhault shook his head.

"It's never this way in songs and stories, is it? Nor is it the same to watch other people fight, even kill." He sighed. "Maybe it's Alynd who should be explaining this to you. We all know that killing is wrong, but that there are times when we have to fight, when it's the only way to protect the people and things we care about. It's never easy to make that choice, to take another person's life for the first time, no matter the reason."

"Did...did you feel like this?"

"I can't say as to that, because it's different for everyone. I'd been watching my opponent's eyes at the time I'd struck, and I kept seeing, over and over again, that precise moment in which the life went out of them."

Tabren shuddered at the thought.

"How did you ever...when did it stop?"

"My swordmistress sat me down and had a talk with me. She'd been through it herself, so she was able to help me understand. Coping with death is part of being a soldier--the death of your enemies, the fear of your own death, and worst of all the death of your comrades and friends alongside you."

He squeezed the boy's shoulder again.

"The ones who really should feel ashamed, Tabren, are the ones who can kill without a second thought, ones like Krasek. There's something missing in people like that."

Tabren didn't seem to think about that. Something else was on his mind.

"Morhault, have you ever seen friends die in battle?"

"Too many times," the renegade said grimly. "A man with my reputation doesn't have many, and each one of them is too precious to lose."

"And...if I can't bring myself to fight, if I'm too scared to use my sword because I can't face the thought of killing my enemy..."

He didn't have to finish the thought for Morhault to understand.

"Um--hm."

"It's not my life that worries me," Tabren said. "I mean, it's my choice to kill...or be killed. If I can't bring myself to kill anyone ever again, it's my life to lose." He looked up at Morhault; there were hints of fear still lingering in his expression, but also a fierce determination. "But if I go into battle, and my hand falters, then someone could die--Elia, Deane, Alynd, maybe even you or Jyrian. It would be as much my fault as if I'd struck the blow myself.

"I won't let that happen, Morhault. I'm not going to let my friends down."

There was nothing sardonic in the renegade's smile.

"Do you know, I believe I said exactly the same thing to Damosel Anaya all those years ago."

Tabren stood up and brushed off his knees.

"C'mon, Morhault. We'd better get back to work or Deane and Jyrian will laugh at how slow we are."

-X X X-

Elia recovered her senses an hour later, after the pyre had been lit and Alynd was administering the prayer for the dead.

"Oh, no!" she gasped to Jyrian, who'd taken over watching her. "Was...was it Tabren? Or Deane? Or, was...was it..."

"No, no, everyone's all right. That's for the enemy dead," Jyrian reassured her. "We didn't have time to bury them, and it didn't seem right, leaving the bodies for the scavengers while we camp nearby."

"Alynd is offering the last rites for _them_? They died while in the service of the Burning Hand--while attacking a priest, besides!"

Jyrian shrugged.

"If anyone's soul needed a little extra help in the afterlife, I'd say theirs qualify." She glanced oddly at Elia. "Bloody-minded revenge doesn't sound much like you. Still a little out of sorts?"

"You mean, from the faint?" She shook her head. "I don't know...memory, perhaps. A flash of something, then gone again." She stared at the dancing flames and the red and orange flickers were reflected in her scintillating azure eyes. "An old pain, I think. Perhaps it's unworthy of me, but I just can't think kindly of them. Not even a little bit."

"Well, I can't say that I disagree too much." Jyrian paused, then said, "An old pain, you phrased it? Do you remember its source?"

Elia shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid I can't."

"Too bad. I was hoping you might recall something. If the Vile Tribe cultists had some quarrel with you in the past, it might explain how you fit into this."

Elia tilted her head, looking curiously at Jyrian. Her blue eyes were stained red by the firelight now.

"Jyrian, do you think that the Burning Hand had something to do with what's happened to me?"

"I'd bet there's a link somewhere, though the Goddess only knows what it could be."

"Why?"

"Well, one reason is what Alynd said about how the magic on you and the magic of those orbs both lacking an element." Morhault and Elia had told Jyrian what the priest had said during the first day of their trip from Meribia. "You know as well as I do--well, maybe you don't right now, but I'm sure you did, one--that people aren't supposed to be able to use that kind of magic. Now it shows up _twice_? It's probably not too likely that two separate people or groups are going to figure out how to do that at the same time."

"I wonder..." Elia mused, thinking it over.

"Plus, I don't believe in coincidences."

"What do you mean?"

"The way you appeared, then just _happened_ to get dragged into the Burning Hand's schemes."

"Jyrian, I'm not lying! I don't know anything about where I came from or how I got to Kyre!" Elia pleaded.

Jyrian held up her heands.

"Hey, wait a minute. I believe you!"

"You do? But you just said..."

"I just meant that the chain of events is too fantastic to be nothing but coincidence. There's a connection somewhere; I'm sure of it. We just can't see it yet."

"Oh, I think I understand."

"The link's somewhere in your memory, Elia. I'm sure of that, too--and it makes me wonder if _that's_ why your memories were taken."


	33. A Prayer and a Wing

Nota had been impressive in the way in which its people had built their city in accordance with the natural circumstances, while Meribia had been majestic as a pure expression of civilization, but the Holy City of Dian was something else entirely. Dian had not been built for war, so it had no walls. It was not a great center of trade, nor the heart of an empire. Its architecture served only one purpose: beauty. The avenues were broad and tree-lined, the buildings almost uniformly white, and there were broad expanses of green visible throughout: four parks dedicated to the glory of the Four Dragons, each with its own small shrine.

In the center of the town, though, and at the intersection of the four broadest avenues so that all Dian seemed focused upon it, was the one structure to which every eye seemed drawn. The High Shrine of Althena was a palace of white marble, with windows of fantastically colored stained glass and a portico framed by fluted columns thirty feet high. It was all but impossible to tear one's eyes away.

"My word!" Deane exclaimed, awestruck.

"It's incredible," Elia whispered, rapt. Indeed, all six of the companions marveled at the Holy City's beauty. Oddly enough, Morhault noted, Tabren seemed the least impressed of any of them.

"Working on your air of worldly-wise _ennui_?" he asked the boy.

"Just thinking."

"What about?"

"Well...it's pretty and all, but how much did it cost? Tens or even hundreds of thousands of silver? How can the Church build palaces like that when it could be feeding and clothing the poor?"

The topic, Morhault reflected, had a certain familiarity about it.

"There is merit to that," Alynd conceded. "There is also value in things of beauty, however. Each day, the High Shrine brings moments of joy to people's lives. Moreover, it is common, particularly among urban-dwellers with their mansions and fortresses, that majestic religious architecture helps to turn people's minds towards thoughts of the divine and away from their workaday concerns. Can you place a value in silver on that?"

"Tell that to the people in the slums."

"Um, Tabren, not that you don't have a point generally, but in this case you're a bit off," Jyrian observed.

"How?"

"Dian doesn't have any slums."

"Come on, Jyrian, even Kyre has its shady side. How can any city not have slums?"

"Well, first off, Dian's _not_ a city on population grounds, just a good-sized town."

"It's just that 'Holy Town of Dian' doesn't sound half as good as 'Holy City,'" Morhault quipped.

"Quiet, you. A good quarter of the population isn't even permanent residents--pilgrims, traveling merchants, Church emissaries, that kind of thing. Then, it's the Church that rules Dian."

"What difference does that make?"

"Well, the administrative staff, the police force, and all that are paid out of the general Church funds, not from Dian's taxes. Also, Althena's Guard--it used to be the priesthood's military arm, but now is basically Dian's town guard--is honest, all but incorruptible, and generally fair and just--not the same thing as honest, by the way. Dian has the lowest crime rate of any town in Lunar, and the lowest taxes. Then, the priests of Althena have established free schools for general education, basic scholarship, and vocational apprenticeship, and there are many charity programs to insure that no one lacks shelter or goes hungry."

"You make it sound like paradise," Tabren said doubtfully.

Jyrian shrugged.

"It wouldn't work in a city like Meribia. The population's too big to efficiently keep track of, and political and mercantile interests get in the way of people's better natures."

"Politics should never keep a city from taking care of its people," Alynd said.

"Yeah," Jyrian countered, "but we both know humanity's got a while to go before living up to that ideal. But I'm still glad Dian is here as a good example. Besides, if you people are going to preach Althena's way to us, you ought to keep your own back yard clean."

She flashed him a teasing grin, but he replied with a straight face, "Very true. Anything else would be rank hypocrisy."

"I'm still not sure," Tabren said. "I mean, I'm glad about the people of Dian, but there's still a lot wrong with the world."

"There's a school of thought among the priesthood that agrees with you," Alynd said.

"Too bad Althena can't just _tell_ us the right answer," Morhault quipped. "Pesky thing, this free will."

Surprisingly, it was Deane who interjected a note of practicality into things.

"This is a fascinating discussion, and I must admit that Dian by near-twilight is beautiful, but is there any reason we're talking here instead of down there where there are inn-rooms with hot food and soft beds?" He glanced up at the sky. "Plus, it looks like rain."

He was right; the spring squall descended upon them only a few minutes later, and their ride into town turned into a mad dash to stay ahead of the cloudburst. They lost the race, but not by much, and a moment to remove their dampened cloaks and a few minutes later before the fire at the Silver Rest inn seemed to put the group to rights.

"It's amazing how much cooler it is here," Tabren said. "It was warmer in Kyre before this all started, and that was a month ago."

Alynd nodded.

"I'm beginning to understand how fur vests became popular."

"Oh, yes, coming from the Prairie you must be freezing on a chilly spring day like this," Deane said.

"Actually, it's the humidity, the damp that's more uncomfortable than anything."

"Really?"

"Yes; Prairie _nights_ can be quite cold. Once the sun sets, the temperature drops sharply."

Deane shook his head.

"The world never ceases to amaze," he marveled. "The science of weather must be as complex as any on Lunar. Unless it's magic, of course."

"That's okay, Deane. If magic does control the weather, it would be just as complex as if physical forces do," Jyrian told him. "It's just a question of which set of scholars winds up with a headache."

"Funny," Tabren said to Morhault, "I've heard people talk about the weather lots of times, but I've never heard them...well..._talk_ about the weather before."

"We've fallen in with strange companions."

"Companions," Jyrian pointed out, "who are paying for the ale."

"Allow me to return to contemplative silence."

She winked at him. "Good call."

Elia burst out giggling. Some people could hold their ale, Morhault thought to himself, but not their ale jokes.

"So what happens now?" he said. "We've made it to Dian, after all. Alynd's mission is almost complete."

"First of all," the priest said, "I'll go to the High Shrine and arrange an audience with the Church authorities."

"The Grand Priestess?" Tabren asked excitedly.

"Quite probably. Her Reverence is a busy woman, but this is important enough that it should command her direct attention. In any case, I'll then turn over the falcon."

"Will we get to go, too?"

"I would think so."

"Good! I _definitely_ want to see the High Shrine of Althena and meet the Grand Priestess if I can. Can't you just see Aunt Lil's face when I tell her about that?"

Jyrian grinned.

"Heck, that's one of the best parts of adventuring! You get to see all kinds of things that most people only dream about--and it gives you some _great_ stories for when you get back!" As Lunar's paramount adventurer, she spoke from experience.

Deane tossed back the last of his wine.

"I was thinking," he said. "Alynd, before we hand, um, _it_"--he glanced theatrically around the taproom--"over to the Church, would it be all right if you let the rest of us see it?"

"You win," Jyrian said to Morhault.

"Um, what do you mean?" Elia wondered.

"I bet him a silver piece that Tabren would say that first."

"No _way_," Tabren told her with a grin. "I wouldn't have the guts."

As opposed to Deane, Morhault thought, who hadn't thought twice about asking the priest to unpack the item that he'd carried across half a continent, safeguarding it from the hands of men and monsters alike, and show it around like the latest items he'd picked up on a shopping trip.

"Now that he's asked, though, I'd like to see what all the excitement is about, too," Tabren continued.

"It's not a toy," Morhault said sharply. "This is something very important to everyone on Lunar. Plus, Alynd may not want to give away its hiding place so casually as that."

"I say, we're not suspicious characters," Deane protested, "especially not after what we've been through."

"No, he's right," Elia told him. "We only came along and helped him fortuitously. For all he knows, we might have planned it that way. Why, we don't even know who I am. I might be..." She glanced down sadly. "I might even be one of them."

"I don't believe that!" Tabren exclaimed at once.

"Neither do I," Jyrian said. "I can't believe that merely losing your memory would flip your personality on its head."

"Thank you both," she replied with a wan smile. "Your faith and hope mean so much to me, but it doesn't change the truth of what Morhault said."

"Actually," Alynd remarked, "I'm inclined to disagree."

"What?" five voices chorused, their faces alternately shocked, happy, or dismayed.

"I think it would be only fair to let you see what you've risked your lives to help me protect. It's the very least I can do for you, especially those of you who have set aside your personal quests to aid mine." He nodded to Elia.

It sounded good, but Morhault couldn't help but wonder if part of Alynd's willingness to show them the falcon was because the fallen knight was the one to suggest that he not do it.

"Great!" Tabren exclaimed.

"Of course, it can wait until we return to our rooms. Upstairs, right after supper."

Not surprisingly, the rest of the meal passed quickly. They had two rooms at the Silver Rest, and congregated in the larger one, which would be the men's.

"Is it in one of the packs? I can fetch it."

Alynd shook his head.

"There's no need, Tabren. I've been unwilling to let it away from my person, or to carry it in a satchel some cutpurse might take."

He began unlacing the ties of his beaded and fringed leather vest, then opened it. A wad of padding fell from inside the lower left side, which Morhault realized was to balance out the vest's appearance from the wrapped parcel strapped below his ribs on the right.

"Tricky," he said approvingly. "That must be giving you a nasty pain in the side every time you try to bend or turn, though."

Alynd gave Morhault a withering look as he untied the parcel.

"A minor annoyance, easily tolerated for the sake of my duty."

He set the cloth-wrapped bundle on the table and undid the leather thongs that held it. More than likely the cautious packing wasn't to protect it--magical items tended to be very hard to damage--but to keep curious eyes away. Slowly, Alynd unwrapped it.

"So that's Eairon's Falcon," Jyrian said.

Morhault whistled.

"Not bad."

Indeed it wasn't. The statuette was made of gold, with exquisite detailing on the feathers and feet. The falcon's furled wings were edged with a rainbow of glittering jewels, while the talons and beak were of pure onyx. Its eyes were closed and its head tucked down as if sleeping. Regardless of its magical worth or its value as a historical relic, it would be priced at many thousands of silver solely as an art treasure.

"It's a bit gaudy," Deane remarked critically, "but nicely done, nonetheless." Morhault shook his head, bewildered that someone with Deane's fashion sense could dismiss _anything_ as gaudy, and so he almost missed the falcon's eyelids rising to reveal two cabochon-cut amethysts.

"What the--?" Jyrian exclaimed.

"It's awake!" Elia marveled.

Eairon's Falcon stretched its wings experimentally, as if it were a live bird, then opened its onyx beak with a warlike cry.

"Did it do this before?" Morhault asked Alynd.

"No, it always seemed to be a statue."

"Then we'd better catch it!" said Jyrian. She suited her actions to her words, but the figuring nimbly hopped back to avoid her hand. Before anyone else could act, it leapt into the air. It circled the room twice, darting over and around the companions' comical-looking attempts to catch it, all the while glowing brighter and brighter with a golden aura while its own substance faded to translucence.

When the falcon was entirely insubstantial, nothing but light and fire, it cried out once more, triumphantly, and flashed upwards, passing _through_ the ceiling.

"Where did it go?"

"Look!" Deane pointed out the window, where a golden streak flashed off towards the northwest.

"It's gone," whispered Alynd. "My mission...it failed." Even for Morhault, the expression on his face was heartrending.

"What just happened here?" Tabren said. "I thought you needed some spell to make it fly."

"The battle," Jyrian sighed. "The spell the priest cast on Alynd, the one that didn't seem to do anything, remember?"

"It seemed to take the caster by surprise when it failed," Morhault recalled.

"That must have been the spell to awaken the falcon. The priest must have been expecting it to fly off right away, and was left confused when nothing happened."

"Why did the falcon wait until now?" asked Elia.

"Probably because it was wrapped up and Alynd only took it out now. The way it flew around in physical form before turning to pure energy was part of the process. I bet it couldn't do that while confined. If you'd waited until tomorrow to deliver it, Alynd, it probably would have done the same thing in front of the Grand Priestess."

"So showing it to you didn't ultimately do any harm, but I would never have been able to deliver it in any case."

"Look at it this way," Deane offered. "At the speed that bird was flying, no one would be able to follow it to its destination. Even a minute mistake could end up taking you off-course by miles."

"Pretty useless as a guide, then," Tabren said.

"Oh, no," Elia corrected him in an almost offhand manner. "A seeking spell like that would leave a trail to follow. I suppose that only the caster can see this one, as Eairon was so secretive about his possessions."

Deane's shoulders slumped.

"So the Burning Hand _will_ be able to follow it. They'll get the Red Dragon Aura, then."

Morhault grinned.

"Not if we get there first."

"What are you talking about, Morhault? We can't even see the trail, let alone follow it."

"Maybe we can't, Deane, but I bet that Alynd can."

The priest understood at once. He turned to the window, and his jaw clenched slightly as he summoned up his sight. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

"I can!" he exclaimed. "It's as plain as day, a trail of wind and earth magic melded."

"Earth to anchor the trail to fixed points on the ground and wind to trace the way in the air," Jyrian deduced. "How did you know?"

"Well, if it left a real trail, not just an impression in the caster's mind, then there's actual magic in the air right now, which Alynd should be able to perceive."

"In that case," Tabren said, "I'll start packing."

Morhault dropped a hand onto his shoulder even as he made a move towards the baggage.

"Don't rush off quite so fast."

"Huh? But the Burning--"

"They'll have to follow the trail, just like we will. It's going to be a hard and fast run from here on out and a good night's rest in comfortable beds will refresh all of us. Plus, we'll want to restock on food, water, and other supplies before we leave, and the provisioners won't be open at this hour, anyway. Never go rushing off on a quest half-prepared unless you don't intend it to be a round trip."

"He's right," Jyrian said. "The few hours we'd save now could cost us days--or worse--later."

"We'd better get to bed soon, then," said the fallen knight. "Tomorrow morning we'll need to start early, so if anyone has plans to sleep in you'd better cancel them now."

Deane shook his head ruefully.

"I say, you adventurers simply have no respect for a proper schedule. I had might as well be rusticating in the country for all the night life I'm seeing." He brightened suddenly and added, "Though one must admit, at least it isn't necessary to do the pretty with the Vile Tribe's assorted lackeys, so I suppose it all balances out."

Everyone else broke into laughter, which Morhault thought wasn't a bad omen for the start of the adventure.


	34. Interlude Hand

"There!" hissed Barios, priest of the Pyre Lord and chief aide to the Disciple Nagoyan. "I feel it!" The unholy magician had not understood why his spell to awaken Eairon's Falcon had failed, but after several days' delay he felt at last the surge of contact, the link magically falling into place in his mind. He raised his eyes to the night sky and saw it, brilliant and shining, as plain as day, a coruscating bar of bluish-green light extending for miles above him.

The tall, lean, brown-haired man did not look like the popular image of a heretic priest. He'd worn the Burning Hand's sigil openly to face his enemies, hoping to put them off guard with the implied threat suggested by his costume, but now he wore a simple green shirt and leggings beneath a fur-trimmed leather vest, common garb worn by thousands of men in western Lunar. A heavy longknife hung sheathed at his waist; he was quite proficient with the weapon.

"What's that?" asked the captain of his soldiers, the man who'd assembled the mercenary troop that had fought and died alongside Barios. He hadn't taken the whole force into battle, believing the ambush to be sufficient for its work. That had been a tactical error, but it did at least leave him with resources to draw upon.

"Eairon's Falcon has taken wing."

"I thought you failed at that," the captain said bluntly. The man seemingly had no fear of him, which gnawed at Barios's heart. There was little he could do about that, though; the captain was in the Disciple's employ rather than the priest's and therefore held equal authority to Barios in temporal if not religious matters.

"One of two things has happened. Either the weak-kneed lapdogs of Althena have activated the Falcon and my previous attempt to awaken it was enough to let me follow the trail, or else my spell was simply delayed in its effect."

"The latter."

Barios scowled.

"And just when did you become an expert on the magic of Eairon's Falcon?"

"I'm not. It's obvious, though. So long as _we_ don't have the falcon, the Red Dragon Aura is safe in Eairon's Vault like it's been for three centuries. If the Church was actually going to use the falcon, it would do so with a major armed expedition, which takes time to raise. Presuming that they weren't bright enough to just hunt up the White Dragon and let _him_ retrieve the Dragon Aura."

"Then we need only worry about the Prairie Tribesman and his companions."

The captain raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Granted, they're an irritatingly persistent lot, but what makes you think they'll be able to even follow the trail?"

Barios sneered, happy that he suddenly had the upper hand in the conversation.

"The priest is a _Seer_, you fool. He can see the magical path as well as I can. Believe you well, they'll come chasing after Eairon's Falcon with the forlorn hope of recovering the Red Dragon Aura before us."

"Forlorn?" the captain inquired with a mildness that had razor-edged steel lurking beneath. He hadn't appreciated Barios's tone or being called a fool--which was as it should be, the dark priest conceded. Anyone worthy of power should take pride in it, not cower meekly. Defiance was how true order was established, the strong forcing the submission of the weak. "So far, every time they've encountered your little cult, the best you've managed is to run away."

Barios scowled again. The man's mockery was offensive, but what was truly galling was the knowledge that he was right. No man prospered by self-delusion, and the plain truth was that Alynd, Jyrian Mageborn, and the others had defeated the minions of the Burning Hand, including Barios himself, on multiple occasions. What was also true was that regardless of his desire to crush them for their effrontery, Barios had more important duties than eliminating these foes. Only he could see the falcon's magical trail, thus only he could lead the way to Eairon's Vault. If he died seeking revenge, their greater purpose would be thwarted.

That would not, he suspected, make for a pleasant afterlife for his bartered soul.

"They have to be stopped," he declared. "As you say, there are scores to settle between us. Yet I must follow the falcon, and including the priest they have three spellcasters among them. Your troops wouldn't stand a chance."

"You're right about that. With the losses at your ambush there's only four or five left I'd dignify with the name of soldier; the rest are bandits and tavern scum. The fact is, there aren't _that_ many people even in those ranks who will work openly for the Burning Hand. Robbery, arson, murder, and torture don't bother them, but oh no, mustn't challenge the Goddess's authority, just all her commandments." He spat into the fire. "Hypocrites."

"Yet you are willing to take our coin."

"I'm hired to do a job. I don't care if my master is the Vile Tribe, the Lion Knights, or anyone in between. I kill people. I'm good at it. What difference does it make whom I kill or who orders me to do the killing?"

"Your words make you sound fit to be one of us."

"Thanks but no thanks. I don't go on bended knee to any god. I make my own fate, and the only thing I trust is this." He slapped the jeweled hilt of his broadsword.

Barios shrugged dismissively.

"As you will. It would do nothing to stop Alynd and his group in any event."

"Once you retrieve the Dragon Aura, they won't have any way to keep following, will they?"

"No, the trail follows the falcon, not what it guards."

"Then there's an easy solution. Find someone else to fight them for you in a delaying action."

"How?"

"There's a map in my saddlebags. Let me get it, and I'll show you some ideas."

_A/N: With considerable regret, I have come to the decision to place _Crimson Hope_ on indefinite hiatus. I've got way too much on my plate just now (and not just with writing, either; sometimes it rather surprises me that I'm able to write as much as I do while keeping up the obligations of a full-time job and an even more full-time marriage!_). _I actually have the next six chapters "in the can," as it were, so it would be possible to drag this out for the next three months, but I felt it best to stop here, at the break between arcs, rather than starting the chase after Eairon's Falcon and ending it halfway through. I rather regret doing this--I've been keeping up this story for well over a year, now!--but it's something I do feel that I need to do. For those of you who may be disappointed; I apologize for the inconvenience, and I hope that in the future I'll be able to pick up the story where I left off._


End file.
